Tis All A Game: What Is Sown
by Morninglight
Summary: "From the breezes of youth can grow the tempests which shake the world." The unlucky daughter, the servant's illegitimate son, the unwanted heir, the hunter's brat, the witch's child and the apostate's eldest: six different people, six different destinies... and the forces which shaped them into becoming the world-breaking titans of the morrow.
1. Prologue: 9:14 Dragon

Note: Damned plot nugs screwing around with how my story should go! I'm sorry; I need to expand the prologue to include all six main protagonists. Some dates altered from the canon deadline to suit the storyline. I thank my friends and fans for their patience in this third rewrite.

…

**Prologue: 9:14 Dragon**

Castle Cousland, First Day (Midnight)

The lusty cry of a newborn babe rang out, shattering the expectant silence that gripped the inhabitants of Castle Cousland in the wake of the news that Teyrna Eleanor had been brought to childbed at the most inauspicious time of year excepting All Souls' Day. In Highever a dusk-to-dawn vigil was maintained in remembrance of those who died in the depths of winter before people dispersed at first light to seek out friends and family to discover who survived the snows. Given that First Day was always held on the first dark moon of the year, any child born tonight would be a potential source of ill luck for their clan. In the days before the Chantry came, the babe would be left for the wolves and winds to spare the others. But now with the teachings of Andraste embedded deep in an ancient people-

A door slammed as two people emerged from the Teyrn's bedroom, arguing fiercely in words that Fergus, turned twelve last Summerday, knew were bad (at least he always got in trouble for using them). One was his father, tall and broad-shouldered with neat dark hair and the piercing Cousland blue eyes; the other a slim woman in wine-red mage robes with her prematurely silver hair tied into a little ponytail.

"I don't give a flying fuck about an ancient superstition!" the healer who'd been tending his mother told Bryce Cousland fearlessly. "Your daughter is neither cursed nor possessed by a demon, Teyrn!"

"She was born still-"

"On the edge of death, yes. But it is neither sin nor shame to admit I am the best Spirit Healer in the kingdom, hence your request – and generous donation to the Circle – for me to attend your wife on her childbed to make sure both she and your babe survived. _Which I have done_."

Old Aldous, the house mage and tutor to the Couslands for three generations, shuffled into the common room used by the family and their guests. "Your Lordship, Senior Enchanter Wynne speaks the truth," he reassured the Teyrn. "We would know whether the girl was possessed – and she is not."

Bryce's lips thinned as the anger left his eyes. Fergus huddled in his chair, knowing that his father's famous temper still seethed beneath the calm he was forcing upon himself. "The histories are full of tales-"

"Legends, not histories," Aldous corrected, using the wryly exasperated tone every Cousland tutored by him knew only too well. "I am sure your daughter will grow up to have no more ill luck than any other young woman."

"There is a _real_ concern to be aware of," Wynne added, her voice gentler than before. "Teyrna Eleanor will have no more children – not unless you want to lose her before her time."

Fergus bit his lip. He was old enough, having been born in the first year of Ferelden's freedom from the Orlesian invaders, to be aware of how fragile the great lines of the old nobility were. Even without knowledge of the old ways, the usurpers west of the setting sun had known that breaking or suborning the ancient lineages would weaken and eventually shatter the kingdom of Calenhad. It would fall to him and his sister to thicken the bloodline and bind it to other families to recoup what was lost and destroyed.

_I am a brother,_ he realised. His little sister, born at an ill-luck time, would need someone to look out for her and make sure any misfortune didn't befall her or the clan. _I am a big brother now. I wonder what Father will call her?_

"Already she brings bad luck to us," Bryce muttered. "But she has taken suck and is therefore part of the family now."

"Be wary of self-fulfilling prophecies," Wynne warned severely. "She's a baby no different to any other."

_Except that she was born nearly dead at the dark of the moon on First Day,_ Fergus thought. Even at twelve he knew that his father put more stock in old wives' tales than the reassurances of a mage. As much as he loved him, Fergus was more inclined to believe Wynne, who seemed very wise and patient whenever he asked dumb questions about the coming baby, over Bryce.

The mage's soft grey eyes looked through the gloom, finding the boy unerringly. "Fergus understands," she told the Teyrn and Aldous firmly. "He understands what you apparently don't, Your Lordship."

"She's my sister and I'm gonna love her," he announced defiantly. "'Cause love is stronger than bad luck. You said that, Father."

Bryce inhaled sharply as the words he'd shared with his son in the secret grove near their castle a few months were thrown in his face. "I will… try to remember that," he finally conceded.

Nan emerged from the bedroom, dark eyes snapping with displeasure. "My lord, everything's cleaned up. You going in there to see your wife and baby?"

The Teyrn of Highever nodded, holding out his hand for Fergus. "Come, Fergus, let us go and meet your little sister."

Fergus rose from his seat, nearly tripping over limbs which were growing ridiculously fast in his haste, and took it. Bryce led him into the large comfortable bedroom where Eleanor waited, still flushed from the birthing but her dark copper hair braided neatly to one side, daughter suckling at her moon-pale breast. His mother raised shadowed grass-green eyes to the duo as they entered, already aware of the argument and Wynne's troubling news.

"I am so sorry," she whispered. "I tried to wait-"

Bryce took his wife's hand and squeezed gently. They'd married two years before King Maric had driven out the Orlesians, binding the teyrnir of Highever to the coastal bannorn of Waking Sea, once sworn to West Hills but switching allegiance to the Couslands on the death of Maric's mother Moira. "Hush, Eleanor," he crooned. "It's alright. It's the Maker's will."

Eleanor looked down at the baby in her arms with a sombre expression. "Then let her name be Sinead."

_God is gracious,_ Fergus translated. It appeared that his parents were sucking up to the Maker just in case his little sister was bad luck.

Sinead stirred in his mother's arms and opened her eyes: they turned down a little instead of being level like his father's, looking a bit sad, but they were Cousland blue just like Bryce's. Fergus wasn't quite sure why his father's eyes were blue and his mother's green but his were bog-brown. He'd asked once and Father had laughed, saying that sometimes other blood came out and that _his_ grandmother had been a Howe. Given that Fergus otherwise looked like the spitting image of Bryce and Arl Howe (when he'd dared to peer at the man's eyes) had a similar colour, he had to take his word for it. But his little sister's hair was already the same dark copper as Eleanor's.

_She's going to be beautiful and lucky and smart,_ Fergus decided then and there. _And I'll smack anyone who says otherwise._

He was a Cousland and so it would be.

…

Castle Redcliffe, Wintersend (Dawn)

Alistair the dead elven servant's bastard was officially six today and the cook decided to celebrate by kicking him out of the kitchen (and all the cheese there). He was now a dog-boy under Huntmaster Kaedan, entrusted with scrubbing out the kennels to the half-Orlesian's exacting eye and sleeping in a pile of old straw with not even his golem doll, a gift from Arl Eamon himself, to keep him company as Cook had thrown it in the fire. The stripes across his back from Cook's belt reminded him of the futility of complaint. He was a bastard, lucky to be in the Arl's household instead of the Chantry with all the other spawn of sin, and if he behaved one day he might be an upstairs servant one day. Though Cook doubted it because he was half-elven and an idiot besides.

Alistair personally thought that there were too many Orlesians in the household, especially since Arl Eamon, who'd always treated him kindly, married Lady Isolde. Beautiful with her chestnut hair, honey-brown eyes and porcelain skin, she regarded the half-elven bastard like he was personally offensive to her, just because Arl Eamon was sometimes kind to him. Everyone in Redcliffe knew that whiskey-haired, amber-eyed Alistair looked nothing like the auburn-haired, blue-eyed Guerrins if she thought he was the Arl's son. In fact, he sort of looked more like Lady Isolde (something that made the boy shudder) than anyone else.

"Hello, Alistair. Why the doom and gloom on your face?"

The bastard looked up from the floor he was scrubbing to meet the kind sea-blue eyes of Bann Teagan, the Arl's little brother, as Kaedan made a noise of protest. "Milord, the boy will never learn his place if you coddle him so. Lady Isolde explicitly commanded-"

_Lady Isolde's the reason why I'm here,_ Alistair instinctively realised as Teagan, a lanky youth already cultivating a neat goatee that caused the maids to sigh and giggle, rose to his feet to regard the Huntmaster coolly.

"If there is any problem you have with how I interact with the servants, I can show you the gate to Castle Redcliffe," he offered icily. "Alistair's mother was a loyal chambermaid and the lad was born into service, which is more than I can say for you."

Kaedan's face paled nearly to the colour of a good goat's cheese. "I-I… Forgive me! I obey the commands of Lady Isolde-"

"Who has nothing to fear from the boy. He is not the son of either Eamon or me." Teagan smiled down at Alistair, who'd stopped scrubbing the flagstone floor in shock at being defended… and knowing that once the Bann of Rainesferre was gone, he'd cop _another_ beating on his birthday. "Alistair, I want you to come with me."

"Yesser!" Alistair said eagerly, scrambling to his feet. Even if it was to do another chore, Teagan was nice and might even sneak him some cheese.

The Bann led him first to the bathhouse, handing a bundle of cloth to the astonished boy: a new shirt, tunic and breeches in Redcliffe brick-red and off-white. "You are entitled to a new set of livery on your birthday and at All Souls' Day," he told him as Alistair scrubbed himself clean with harsh lye soap. "As a servant of the Guerrins, you are owed that much."

Now squeaky clean and clad in the best clothing he'd ever owned, Alistair nodded eagerly at Teagan's words. Everyone knew that Orlesian servants were practically slaves there. Even as the dog-boy, Alistair _was_ lucky to be Fereldan. Maybe one day if he worked hard he could have a freehold and raise cows to make cheese!

Something sad and wistful flickered in the Bann's eyes. "And here is your birthday present," he told Alistair, offering a small piece of blue-veined cheese. "It is… Highever Blue."

It was only after he'd snatched the expensive cheese, worth its weight in gold, from Teagan's hand and had shoved it in his mouth that Alistair recalled his manners and mumbled a thank-you whilst chewing. Teagan's eyes crinkled in good humour, watching him devour the offering with the gusto of a hungry child before looking away with that slightly sad expression on his face.

Alistair licked every crumb of cheese from his fingers before looking up at the Bann. "Umm, will Lady Isolde be angry with you for giving me this?" he asked warily. He didn't want Teagan to get in trouble with the shrill-voiced Orlesian.

Teagan's generous mouth quirked to the side. "Teyrn Cousland had a baby girl and sent a wheel of the stuff to every noble house in Ferelden. The Arlessa is not fond of Fereldan cheeses and so there was plenty for you, lad."

"She doesn't like a lot of Fereldan stuff. How come she married the Arl then?" he asked artlessly. All the Orlesian servants said it was a love match while the Fereldan ones claimed she used magic to bewitch Arl Eamon. He believed the latter because she was like an evil witch, only young and beautiful instead of old and ugly.

"Her family held Redcliffe after our family was evicted until we returned to claim it under Maric's banner," Teagan explained softly. "Eamon and she met during the handover and… the rest is history. It may not look like it, lad, but she does love the Arl in her way as he does her." He looked in the direction of the family wing. "Maker willing they'll have children soon and her attention will turn from you."

"I know I'm not a Guerrin," Alistair admitted, scuffing one bare foot against the flagstone floor. "Don't know why she's so scared of me."

Teagan sighed, expression confused for a moment before smoothing out. "It's complicated, lad. But I've been asked by Eamon to bring you to the Great Hall."

"I've kept the Arl waiting-"

The younger Guerrin shook his head with a chuckle. "You're fine, lad. He's entertaining King Maric and Prince Cailan."

Alistair couldn't contain his excitement, whooping like a Chasind barbarian. "I'm gonna be in the same room as the King!"

Again, sorrow flickered across Teagan's face. "Yes, you will be," was all he said as he led the boy from the bathhouse.

On the way, he filled in the manners that Alistair needed to know in the presence of the King. It was said that Maric rarely bothered with protocol but you still had to be polite because he was the Saviour of Ferelden and killer of evil mad Orlesian Kings! Maybe Alistair could become a soldier and save the King's life (or maybe Cailan's, because Maric wouldn't need saving) and be made a Knight of Maric's Shield and kill Orlesians under the command of Teyrn Loghain!

The Great Hall had fires and braziers lit everywhere, because Lady Isolde hated the cold, and a couple mabari hounds lounged before the main hearth like the canine royalty they were. Lady Isolde preferred cats, proving that Orlesians had no good taste whatsoever. Alistair kept his eyes down because no half-elven bastard should ever look a great and noble man like King Maric in the face. The Orlesian servants reminded him of his place in the hierarchy every day.

"Ah, Alistair!" Arl Eamon's voice boomed across the Great Hall as they entered. "This is the servant I've assigned to keep Cailan company during our discussion."

"You would have the new dog-boy serve the Prince, husband?" Isolde questioned with one of those disdainful sniffs she favoured.

"This is Ferelden, where half the nobility are descended from Hafter. What better companion for my son than a lad who will tend our mighty warhounds one day," Maric answered, light tenor edged with frost.

"He is a bastard," Lady Isolde countered, not really understanding she was just digging a deeper hole for herself. Maybe she'd say something stupid and get kicked out and Arl Eamon would let Alistair return to the kitchens (and the cheese).

"And so was King Calenhad," Arl Eamon reminded her reprovingly. "This isn't Orlais, Isolde. Even the lowest may rise to the highest rank here."

"Lift your eyes, lad," Maric commanded, speaking to Alistair directly. He was so happy he could burst. The King was talking to him!

He obeyed, meeting a sad sky-blue gaze in a handsome but lined face, grey-threaded golden hair falling about broad shoulders. Maric wore good linen and leather in red and brown with his famous purple cloak about his shoulders. "Don't you ever look down in shame," he said softly, fervently. "You're as good as anyone else."

Alistair nodded obediently, eyes wide, as Prince Cailan fidgeted like a kid instead of a ten-year-old. "Can I go look at the swords?" he asked his father eagerly.

"Yes, you may," Maric said indulgently. "Just don't wreck anything."

Alistair gulped. If the Prince made a mess, _he'd_ get the whip for sure!

Cailan, his father in miniature, looked impatiently at Alistair. "Last one to the armoury's a rotten egg!" He then bolted through the door.

"What are you waiting for? Chase him," Maric ordered.

With a light heart Alistair obeyed. He still let Cailan win though. The Orlesian servants had taught him that. Always let the noble win.

…

Vigil's Keep, Summerday

Nathaniel Howe slung his bow over his shoulder, trying not to sniffle as his father glowered down at him. "You are a Howe of Amaranthine. Try not to embarrass me in the Free Marches."

"Given the hash you've made of the family name since Tarleton's death, that couldn't possibly happen unless he turned out to be a mage and ran away to Tevinter," his mother Loreen of Starkhaven, fifth cousin to the Vaels six times removed, observed sardonically. "Now on the other hand, if he managed to embarrass _me…_"

Suddenly Nate didn't feel like crying. In the Free Marches they wouldn't know him (much) and maybe they would treat him better than his father did since Thomas had come along. Nate missed the father who used to tell him bedtime stories about the Blackmarsh… Until he'd puked up during an execution six months ago. Now Rendon couldn't wait to ship him to foster as a squire in the Free Marches.

"If that happened, it would be because of your blood!" Rendon snapped at his wife. "I don't know why I married you-"

"Because my parents were the only stupid rich people who'd take your sorry self as a son-in-law!" Loreen retorted.

"Why can't you die in childbirth like a decent woman?" Rendon demanded.

"Because someone has to stop you from running your lands into the ground-"

Nate backed away, catching the sympathetic gaze of Assistant Seneschal Varel, before leaving the Keep's Great Hall. The only ones to see the Howes' eldest boy leave were the two elves futilely trying to revive his mother's dead roses – and neither even nodded farewell. It was somehow appropriate, he thought bitterly as he climbed into the cart that would take him to Amaranthine. No one wanted the Howe boy with the weak stomach.

_I'll come back strong enough to protect Delilah and beat Thom,_ the nine-year-old vowed quietly as the cart rumbled out the gates. _And I'll never puke again._

...

Lothering, All Soul's Day

Daveth was exhausted, footsore and hungry. The Revered Mother of Lothering's Chantry was half-senile, chanting Transfigurations 10 for the dead of the year past in a querulous voice, the congregation's expected responses little more than a rote drone that would have put him to sleep if he didn't fear his Da more than the Maker. Three days walk from their tiny hamlet on the edge of the Korcari Wilds near Ostagar to mourn Ma, buried in the bog three months ago, because his Da was repentant. At eight years old, the half-Chasind boy was already well-acquainted with the definition of hypocrisy.

He mumbled the appropriate responses and eyed the fat village kids enviously. They lived richly in this large prosperous place, its wheat fields and sleek cows the envy of Daveth's Da, who made a living trapping swamp deer and rough-tanning their hides for grassland tanners. Daveth once saw a Lothering kid throw away a crust of bread to a bird – and not even one that could be eaten. Now _that_ was wealth!

_They's ain't better'n me,_ he thought bitterly. _They's can't track an' trap no bunny fer dinner!_

Da already reeked of spirits distilled from swamp grains; his neighbours in the pew regarded him and his boy, ragged and dirty as they were, with disfavour. Not that Keth cared what the peasants of Lothering wanted; he cared only for drink, hunting and making Daveth tough. He'd already… removed Ma… for being too soft on him.

_"My trickster boy,"_ she'd mumbled in Chasind, nose and jaw broken, _"Be strong."_

Kera had come from Otter clan, just south of Ostagar, but her Ma had been driven out when a new chief came and killed the old one. But she'd taught her son how to recognise the gods of swamp and beast and sky, the ancient signs to find safe paths in the Wilds, and how to placate the Witches of the Wild and the many spirits should he encounter them. She'd managed that before she died.

_Just me now. Gramma's dead too, Da ain't got none who care fer him… Just me an' the gods._ Daveth saw no reason to believe in the Maker, who reminded him of Da: ignored people unless they did something he didn't like, then punished them excessively. The gods of the Wilds were hard bastards, but they could be placated and even bargained with, and there was more evidence for them than any Maker in a golden city.

He brooded in silence until the service was over and his Da off to Dane's Refuge, the local pub, leaving Daveth to his own devices. Despite being a solemn festival, there were still a number of stalls in the Lothering green to take advantage of the late August heat. Surely with the number of lads who looked passingly like him in town, he could surely lift a bit of food from one of them like he could a bird's egg from the nest.

_Different kinda huntin',_ he reasoned as he slipped out of the Chantry before some sister got it into her head to baptise him. _An' not like they ain't got so little they'd miss a bit._

He washed himself a bit in the donkey trough out the back of the farm belonging to the witch-man from the north, the only non-Chasind mage who could be trusted. Hawke was a hard man, but a fair one, and had once spoken to Kera on a long sleepy day when Keth was away. Even the shamans of Otter, Bear and Wolf clans respected him, his Ma had said, and the clan-chief of the Salmon people near the southern sea travelled all the way to Lothering to consult him.

Leandra, Hawke's wife, placed a tray full of small fruit pies on the window-sill to cool for tonight's Dumb Feast but Daveth knew better than to snatch one of those. The skull-shaped pies were meant for the dead, not the living, and to eat one invited the ghosts to take you away. Daveth missed his Ma bad, but he didn't miss her _that_ much.

Instead he made his way to the small, crowded cluster of stalls in front of Dane's Refuge and hoped he blended in amongst all the other hamlet brats from here to Redcliffe. A tall woman, black of hair and amber of eye, was selling pies thick with gravy and beef; Daveth lusted for them but knew better than to approach her directly, not when her gaze was sharp as Da's hunting knife.

But there was more than one way to skin a deer. Daveth closed his eyes and sent out his mind to touch one of the donkeys near the woman's small table. He'd always been able to skin-walk, as his Ma called it, but kept it quiet because the templars would come and kill him. It wasn't quite magic, she'd said, but if she could have gotten away from Keth she'd have taken him back to Otter clan and they'd be brought back in. Skin-walkers were blessed by the gods.

The donkey, startled by the contact, reared and knocked over the pie-seller's stall; she cursed savagely in a strange tongue, not Chasind or Orlesian or Fereldan, as her wares were knocked over and every urchin in Lothering – Daveth included – descended upon the upset bounty, dirt-covered or not. Even Hawke's daughter, thin and dark, joined them.

He grabbed two pies and scampered away, pleased with himself. More than one way to skin a deer indeed.

…

Morrigan cowered before Flemeth as the ancient witch raged over her lack of control in Lothering. As punishment for some trifle, she had been forced to take the shape of a donkey to pull Flemeth's cart of pies to Lothering, her mother's reasons unfathomable even to the twelve-year-old, and had startled when a mind touched hers. A small filthy boy's mind, coarse and wild, rebellion lurking under a sullen exterior.

She finally stammered what she had sensed from the skin-walker when Flemeth finally fell silent. The witch's expression turned from rage to something resembling understanding, if not compassion.

"I will not beat you. In animal form, you are vulnerable to a skin-walker," the abomination conceded. "But you are mine and I will make you strong enough to make this boy your pawn."

Then she drew forth a knife and cut her palm, scarlet tendrils of magic swirling about her form as Morrigan steeled herself against the coming mental invasion. Flemeth accepted failure once; next time she encountered this skin-walker, she was to be able to shrug off his control… or else.

As Flemeth often reminded her, she'd bred dozens of daughters and she could always breed another if Morrigan did not suit.

…

Lothering, Satinalia

Jaen Hawke hugged herself as Leandra screamed through the night. Her father could call storms with the flick of a hand, but he couldn't heal the pain of her mother as she struggled with twins; it wasn't fair, to be a mage and not able to ease people's hurts. Even though magic was dangerous and demons ate people's souls, she'd take that risk to be able to heal her mother.

Malcolm's lean face, already prematurely lined, had aged in the past two days as one of his Dalish contacts tried to help Leandra. Her father had undergone some unknown trial to bring them from Kirkwall to Lothering under the aegis of the Grey Wardens, and Warden-Commander Polara with her second Duncan in tow came once a year to speak to him. A lot of people consulted Malcolm, even when he only wanted to live quietly.

Her mother's screams were heart-wrenching. The Dalish Keeper Marethari was a good woman but a poor healer, and her helpless face said volumes. Leandra was going to die, the twins in breech, unless someone did something. Finally Marethari suggested cutting open her womb to free the babes.

As dawn edged closer, Jaen had enough: she rushed forward and grabbed her mother's hand, willing whatever power she might have inherited from her father forth to heal her mother. Blue-white light filled her vision as voices whispered many things: hopes, desires, promises, benedictions. But Jaen ignored them in favour of the wordless glow that eased the suffering on Leandra's face, allowing Marethari to do what she'd suggested swiftly and deftly with an ironbark knife, two bloody babes placed on her mother's belly as Jaen healed the incision to a clean white scar.

Magic sang through her; it seemed so right, so clean… How could the templars fear this power that could help people?

The Keeper left soon after, Malcolm making a broken sound as he clutched the semi-conscious Leandra and the twins to him, looking wearily at his daughter.

"I almost wish you hadn't done that," he said resignedly – and Jaen knew that he considered his magic a curse, one he'd never wanted to pass onto his children.

She vowed then and there to never consider this great power anything other than a gift.


	2. 9:19 Dragon

Note: This story will be more like extended drabbles because I want to cover significant events, not year by year histories. Now that all six major protagonists have been established, POVs will drop to about three or less a chapter. Some things may be written from an outsider's viewpoint because writing them in-person would be too harsh for me.

…

**Chapter 1: 9:19 Dragon**

Castle Redcliffe, First Day

"Brother, is this truly necessary? The boy is ignorant of his true heritage, he hasn't a single bit of ambition in his body and he's absolutely devoted to you personally. Let him remain in Redcliffe."

Teagan Guerrin poured himself a shot of Starkhaven whiskey, pretending to ignore the harried, regretful expression on his brother's prematurely aged face or the smug smirk that twisted Isolde's features. The Orlesian woman's belly was ripe with an heir (finally!) and that gave her leverage with Eamon to do something about 'that bastard brat'.

"It's necessary," Eamon finally responded. "All it will take is one glance from a visiting noble at the boy and the cat will be out of the bag, Teagan. People are already raising doubts about Cailan's abilities; we can't afford to have them see Alistair as an alternative."

"Wait… He is _Maric's_?" Isolde blurted. The noblewoman twisted her hands in sudden anguish. "Eamon, why did you not tell me this?"

"It was at the king's command," Eamon said wearily. "Maric once said that Alistair's mother didn't want the boy to be involved in politics as a rival to Cailan."

"I can keep secrets!" Isolde protested. "Husband, I thought you showed favour because he was yours or Teagan's. I feared for my future children. I was in the wrong."

"He'll be miserable in the Chantry," Teagan pointed out, seizing on Isolde's implied reversal. She, no doubt, saw the potential in a spare heir perhaps encouraged to marry one of her lesser Orlesian relatives... No matter where they were, the descendants of Jeshavis played the Game, and Alistair was a mighty piece indeed…

"It's too late to recognise him," was the stolid reply. "He's too old to be trained as a noble, Teagan, even if we could get Maric to agree to it."

"He's not too old to become a page," Isolde countered. "Husband, the Theirin line is thin. If we train him as a knight and make a strategic marriage with some Bann's younger daughter-"

Eamon regarded his wife with some surprise. "Three hours ago you were pleased I finally agreed to send him to the Chantry, woman! Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Because he is a piece in the Game, my husband. And I know Fereldans don't play it as Orlesians do, but you still play." Isolde folded her arms over her heavy belly. "The Mac Tirs are ascendant at Court and your Hero of the River Dane is a xenophobic fool. Ferelden does not exist in its own little world, Eamon. Orlais, the Free Marches – many lands have an interest in our home."

"Anora is wiser than her father," Eamon assured her. "And Alistair wants to be a knight. He can be one as a templar and not be a threat to his brother."

Teagan tossed back his shot, feeling its warmth slide down his gullet and pool in his belly. When Eamon got that steely look in his blue eyes, nothing would change his mind. The newly minted Bann of Rainesferre suspected that Eamon had planned this for a while.

"Then _you_ tell him, brother. Tell him why he is being sentenced to a lifetime of lyrium addiction. Maybe it will console him," the younger Guerrin retorted in disgust before turning to leave. He'd always argued that Alistair should be discreetly trained in case something happened to Cailan, the lessons of Ferelden's history and his time in the Free Marches too raw to contemplate trusting in fate to see the Theirin line intact on a single slender strand.

"I will."

And Eamon did. Alistair screamed and flung his mother's amulet as two burly templars dragged him, kicking and screaming, from the Great Hall of Castle Redcliffe. The cheap silver-gilt pendant shattered on the stone floor and only Teagan noted its location. Isolde, oddly aggrieved yet triumphant despite her argument to keep the boy here, sighed and retired to her bedroom to rest.

_Always have another string to your bow,_ Teagan thought grimly as he returned to his own room to pen a letter. _We are still too weak to have only one heir._

What he was doing… was not strictly treason. But if Alistair was unsuited to the Chantry but not suited to the task of rulership, other arrangements which would allow the boy his freedom yet keep him from the line of succession could be made. And… Duncan had always kept an eye on the lad since delivering him here eleven years ago.

Teagan sealed the letter with his signet and sighed. There was not enough whiskey in the world to deal with Fereldan politics at the moment. But Isolde was correct: the Fereldans mightn't play the Game as Orlesians did, but they certainly played it. And either way, Alistair would need to be protected from it… or taught how to survive.

…

Castle Cousland, Summerday

Sinead Cousland was a dainty little thing in her first proper dress, strewing wildflowers with all the solemnity of a Chantry sister as she preceded her soon-to-be sister-in-law down the aisle. Teagan, seated in the second row of pews behind the King, his family and the Mac Tirs, noted that she already held the promise of great beauty with Eleanor's dark copper curls and Bryce's blue eyes. But given northern superstitions about the timing of her birth, she was more likely to wind up in the Chantry – which could be… a good thing. The same people who were muttering about Cailan's feckless nature were eyeing Bryce as a possible alternative because of his just, wise rule of Highever.

_Cousland won't overtly do anything to encourage his supporters, given that he _is_ loyal to Maric, but I know that the Couslands are smarting over being ignored in favour of Loghain and Anora,_ the Bann of Rainesferre reflected as Oriana d'Antiva, the sister of a bastard member of the Antivan royal family with connections to the House of Crows, walked demurely towards the handsome Fergus. Despite being little over seventeen, the heir to Highever was already a knight and had earned his shield in honest battle.

_He won't _do_ anything. These preparations of his strengthen Ferelden internationally, which will be a good thing whether or not Cailan is King. I should speak to Maric about giving the Couslands more honour, perhaps talk about fostering Sinead with Anora and Loghain, give Bryce a place on the Privy Council…_

The ceremony was brief: Oriana and Fergus listened to a homily on marriage, their hands were tied together, they vowed to each other and then kissed. Bryce wasn't one for religious ostentation; he preferred to make subtle gestures, like the wheels of Highever Blue sent to the other nobles on significant anniversaries or the mighty feast already laid on in the Great Hall. The Couslands took pride in being the oldest unbroken noble lineage in Ferelden… Being older _than_ Ferelden. Only the Guerrins and the Wulffs rivalled them in age.

_Perhaps Sinead could marry Connor. Or, if she winds up in the Chantry, she and Alistair can meet._ Teagan had already taken Maric and Duncan aside, informing them of Eamon's decision to send the boy to train as a templar. Much to the younger Guerrin's surprise, the King had been… hurt while Duncan was beyond livid, icily informing Teagan that his mother had been a Warden-Mage and would be heartbroken to learn of his fate. Both had agreed to his subtle machinations, equally astonishing, though Maric had warned his brother-in-law that if anything happened to Alistair, Teagan's head would adorn a pike. It showed how much he'd loved the Warden-Mage Fiona…

_I'll need to winkle some information about her out of Duncan's people._ The half-Rivaini had become Warden-Commander two years ago on Polara's death, proving to be a stern, utterly neutral leader with a soft spot for street rats like he'd once been. Alistair had been conceived on the Deep Roads expedition Maric had joined, the one where only the King, an elf (now known to be the boy's mother) and Duncan survived. _Perhaps Brosca: she's not averse to sharing if it gets the Wardens something._

After the final benedictions, the assembled nobility of Ferelden walked to the feast awaiting them in the Great Hall. Maric, as usual, was witty but sombre while Cailan showed all the reckless charisma of a youthful Theirin; Loghain glowered while Anora looked a little pale, even ill, though her expression was perfectly serene; Duncan and his Second Riordan devoured everything in sight, as food this good rarely crossed a Warden's path. Eamon and Isolde weren't here, as Connor had been born two weeks ago, so Teagan was the sole Guerrin representative at the feast.

Bryce and Eleanor presided over the gathering like the petty monarchs they were, Fergus and Oriana being too wrapped up in each other and little Sinead sent off to bed. It wouldn't be tragic for Ferelden if the Couslands came to rule; but as per the agreement carved into the Bluestone Boulder, the Theirins would either have to die out or be deemed unworthy of kingship first. Teagan sighed inwardly, stabbing a slice of mutton with his belt-knife more forcefully than necessary. The Couslands were not ambitious… yet.

_I pray Cailan matures,_ he wished sincerely as the boy cracked an off-colour joke about the coming wedding night to Vaughn Uriens. Maric had refused to foster the lad, citing fears about security which were backed by Loghain. It was concerning that Cailan wasn't getting to meet the powers of Ferelden and learn from them; being sheltered would do him no good once Maric died.

"Has the mutton done something to displease you?" Eleanor asked, cutting into his reverie.

Teagan forced the concern from his features, directing a light smile at his hostess. "Of course not, Teyrna; I was thinking of my nephew and sister-in-law."

Eleanor, now barren after Sinead's difficult birth, nodded sympathetically. "The first few weeks are touch and go. But the Guerrins are sturdy stock. I'm sure the boy will be fine."

_Nothing about Isolde… What do they know about her lineage that we don't?_ The Couslands, as rulers of a port, had been amongst the first to establish trade with Orlais and the Free Marches. They could have connections that Teagan and even Maric lacked.

_We… need an intelligence service like the Orlesians and Antivans have,_ he realised. _I must discuss this with Maric as soon as possible._

But for now he would have to smile and nod to please the Couslands. They were not traitors, but they _would_ take advantage of any blows that Fate dealt. As would anyone else, including the Orlesians and the Kirkwallers. Teagan had a lot to anticipate if he was to protect his nephew.

…

Royal Palace, Denerim, All Soul's Day

"Since you've identified a problem, Teagan, I'm setting you to deal with it."

"I know nothing of espionage," he protested, looking at Maric pleadingly.

"But you know plenty about politics and diplomacy." The King glanced at the hard-eyed Rendon Howe, already known for his contacts and rogue's ways… and the military agents he ran under Loghain's paranoid gaze. "Arl Howe, can you spare some of your more… ah…"

"Diplomatic agents? Certainly," Rendon answered. "Teagan's really perfect for a domestic spymaster. He's closely related to you, but of minor rank and not directly in line to inherit Redcliffe. He's important enough to be respected by most people but as a Bann, he'll be more approachable than someone like myself or Loghain."

"Speaking of Loghain, how's Anora?" Maric asked, changing the subject.

"Recovering from that nasty coastal illness she picked up," Howe promptly replied.

Maric sighed in relief. "Thank the Maker. I love Cailan, but she's going to be the head to his heart."

"She'll have to be," Rendon muttered, and despite his wariness of the conniving man, Teagan had to agree. Cailan wasn't a bad lad, but he was far too naïve and enthusiastic at the moment.

"Teagan, you're in charge of this… domestic agency. You've a good eye for people and I will give your agents carte blanche – within reason," Maric continued. He sighed, rubbing his overlarge nose. "I guess we'll need some snappy name for them. Maker knows the Orlesians have their Shadows of the Empire and the Antivans their Crows."

Teagan echoed his brother-in-law's sigh. "They will need to be smart but loyal; tenacious, steady and deadly," he said. "Let them be called the Hounds of the King."

Maric grinned, showing the sunny charisma he rarely displayed these days. "Very well, _Houndmaster. _Only us and Loghain will be aware of your identity and those of your agents. Find me good people, Teagan. Because Cailan – and Ferelden – will need them in the years to come."

The King's choice of words concerned Teagan, having some odd kind of undertone to them that he couldn't identify. But Maric wouldn't elaborate and Teagan wouldn't ask in front of Howe, who he didn't trust as far as he could throw him. But what he could do but obey?


	3. 9:20 Dragon

Note: Two chapters in one day (and a half) to keep things averaging at 4000+ words. Thanks for reading and reviewing! This is a dark(ish) story in parts, so be warned about implied child abuse and other triggering issues. By the way, my Duncan is a lot smarter than he is in canon, so he'd send somebody to find certain treaties _before_ the crap hits the fan. :P

…

**9:20 Dragon**

Lothering, First Day

"Hello. Need some help with that donkey?"

"Not if you're going to be the one offering it," Jaen told the dark, wiry bog-man Daveth dryly as he popped up from nowhere behind the Hawke farm. He was one of the few who knew her family's status as apostates, once having personally led a couple templars into the Korcari Wilds where they presumably ran into Flemeth and died. "Valuable animals have a habit of wandering off when you're around."

"It was only that knight's charger an' he'd been whippin' it somethin' fierce!" the half-Chasind protested. "I don't mess with your Da, Hawke. He's got connections."

Leandra emerged from the kitchen, laundry basket in tow. She seemed to have a sixth sense for whenever Jaen was alone with one of the Lothering boys – and for some reason, she wasn't fond of Daveth. Probably because the skin-walker was openly mercenary and larcenous, albeit good-hearted. Bethany followed her mother, eyes wide with fear she'd already learned from one too many close calls.

"If you're looking for Malcolm, he's… away," the former noblewoman said, voice full of brittle courtesy.

"Thought I'd give ya a heads up there's a templar party headin' south," Daveth responded with a curt nod. "They's goin' witch-huntin', but ya might wanna stay close to the hearth."

"Don't suppose you could lead them into the bog again?" Jaen asked softly as Leandra paled.

"I'm leavin' for Denerim. That charm of yers worked a treat and Da's in the bog, finally," the young man responded. "Heard there's plenty of groups that got 'nough clout ta hide a mage if'n ya wanna get outta Lotherin'. One day yer family's not gonna miss a call, Hawke."

Jaen took a sudden breath. Catching Daveth shirtless one day, seeing the scars on his back, had inspired her to make a delayed Entropy spell for him to use on his father. She wasn't surprised to know he'd waited until the time it would be fatal, but she understood. "It's… tempting," she admitted softly. "But I can't leave Ma and… Beth's like me."

The thief nodded slowly, looking a bit glum. Truth be told Jaen would miss him and his rogue's ways, even if she didn't fancy him like _that_. They were good friends though.

"Look me up in Denerim when ya leave," he suggested as he stepped away, nodding to Leandra. "But stay close ta yer hearth until them templars go. The one leadin' them is a bad one."

He exited their backyard and Jaen forced her sudden tears to remain unshed. A piece of her childhood had just gone… and she knew that growing up truly began now.

…

Korcari Wilds, Wintersend

Morrigan studied the last dying templar critically, impressed that he'd managed to survive losing all four limbs when her mother's sylvans found him. One or two had escaped, their sense of self-preservation overcoming their most holy oaths to the Maker, and she knew they'd likely desert if they weren't too deep in the lyrium. The Chantry disliked cowardly templars, after all.

Flemeth made an impatient sound at her. "You can sense the power, girl. Use it."

"No." Morrigan raised her eyes to meet the matching yellow gaze in Flemeth's aging face. Whilst the ancient Witch could overpower her daughter in almost anything, in this one thing – the embracing of blood magic – she couldn't compel her. And for some reason, the younger witch perversely denied her mother the satisfaction of seeing her use blood. So far, her mastery of ice and entropic spells had sufficed.

"Bah! You're doing this to defy me!"

"I see age has not yet addled your wits overmuch, Mother. For 'tis correct I deny you this." Morrigan knew that she wasn't yet able to take on Flemeth in open combat, but one day… one day… The ancient abomination's secrets would be hers.

She was scowled at yet not physically reprimanded. Morrigan had frozen Flemeth momentarily last year when the witch had tried taking a stick to her. It had been worth the resulting rant to see that swift flicker of shocked fear in those ancient yellow eyes.

_Love has no meaning and beauty no use beyond what it can get me,_ she reminded herself, _but power is eternal._

For the hundredth time she wondered where the skin-walker had gone. Wary of his power, Morrigan had kept an eye on the wild boy as he had matured into a youth, one with hard eyes and a delightfully pragmatic streak. 'Twas a pity he had vanished somewhere north of Lothering; he might have made a useful… tool… if she handled him correctly.

The family of apostates in the large village concerned her, mostly because the eldest daughter rivalled Morrigan in power and pragmatism, the father enough to make Flemeth cease her trips to Lothering just in case she was detected. Instead Morrigan went, to learn something of humanity and how to use them as needed.

She trampled down on a sudden surge of wistfulness harshly, shifting into the form of a wolf. She needed to run, to burn off the excess energy that this spring had given her; Flemeth allowed her to roam at will in the Korcari Wilds now, given that she had enchanted the rosewood ring to find her at need.

Of course, Morrigan had learned to conceal herself if necessary. Flemeth did not need to know _everything_ she did.

It felt good to run, to revel in the stretch of muscle and sinew, to feel padded paws flying over springy grass. She howled for the sheer joy of it, grateful that Flemeth did not find this activity frivolous – unlike her passion for jewellery, the epitome of useless adornment. A good apostate kept themselves in top physical condition, as most templars were used to those soft caged mages of the Circle, not someone who could probably knock them cold with a single punch if necessary.

A crossbow suddenly twanged and Morrigan yelped as its bolt scored her back. She instinctively shifted, calling ice to both hands to freeze the would-be hunter-

"Huh, they said this place was weird. They weren't fucking kidding," drawled the oddly accented medium soprano from the bushes. "Sorry about the bolt. I've been attacked by one too many wolves to take chances."

A dwarf emerged from the foliage, holstering a finely-made crossbow on her back; Morrigan quelled her ice-spell a little, knowing she would have to be very lucky to hold the woman for long. And for some reason, Flemeth regarded any violence short of self-defence against a Grey Warden very dimly indeed.

The auburn-haired woman tugged off a gauntlet and rummaged through her pack for an elfroot potion, which was promptly tossed at Morrigan, who managed to catch it and drink gratefully. She wore battered Warden-Scout leathers with the ease a noblewoman wore gold, malachite-green eyes worldly and shrewd in a manner the young witch envied. "Thanks for not obliterating me," she said dryly.

"'Twould be pointless in doing so. I would need to be most fortunate for my spells to have an effect upon you," Morrigan admitted. "And… I cannot fault you. The wolves of the Wilds have become most aggressive this past year."

"So have the darkspawn," the Warden responded. "Something's up, and given the way my luck runs…"

Morrigan felt a chill run through her. _A Blight…_ "Has it begun?" she asked, unable to articulate 'it'.

"Not yet. But the animals around here are acting oddly and apparently Duncan has nothing better for me to do than haul my arse to this Stone-forsaken swamp." She shoved her hair back to reveal two intricate brands, one across her forehead and the other on her right cheek, and then slapped a biting insect absently. "So, you're too pale to be a Chasind. You the Witch of the Wilds?"

"I… am not. But… I know her." There was something about the frank honesty of this woman that drew a matching truthfulness, albeit reluctantly, from Morrigan.

"Good. I just went poking around an old Warden outpost to find some ancient treaties and they went walkies. Figured only one able to break the seals would be a Witch. Mind telling me where she is?"

Flemeth had been obsessed with the Grey Wardens since before Morrigan's birth, giving explicit instructions that if the witch-girl ever met one, she was to bring them to her immediately. Given that the old woman was still in a huff over her refusing to use blood magic, having someone else to bear the brunt of her mood was a pleasant notion to Morrigan.

Unsurprisingly, Flemeth met them at the beginning of the sylvan grove, the demon-possessed trees still adorned with dismembered templars. The nameless Warden regarded them coolly, made a dry observation about it being a bit too late to decorate the halls for Satinalia, and met the abomination's eyes squarely.

"You, I like!" cackled Flemeth. "I take it you are here for your precious treaties?"

"No, I'm here for the scenery," she drawled. "But yeah, I am. Thanks for preserving them."

The Witch of the Wilds cackled again and handed the paperwork to the Warden before losing her humour. "A Blight _is_ coming, girl, and it will be worse than anyone can anticipate."

Morrigan shivered subtly as the Warden suddenly looked very intent and dangerous. Now she understood why this 'Duncan' had dispatched this woman on her own into the Wilds. "Any idea when?"

"Maric Theirin's death will be the first sign," Flemeth warned. "Beyond that… I cannot say."

The dwarf rolled her shoulders, leather creaking. "May he have a long and healthy life then."

"You are not eager for a Blight, to serve the purpose your Order exists for?"

"Lady, I'll take the deathblow when the time comes if it comes to me to do so. It doesn't mean I'm eager to lose my soul to save a bunch of deep lords and surfacers with shit for brains."

Flemeth eyed Morrigan intently. "This why I respect the Wardens, girl. When an archdemon dies, its soul travels to the nearest tainted body. If it is a Warden who makes the deathblow-"

"It comes to theirs and two souls can't exist in one body, so they destroy each other," the dwarf finished with a sigh. "Rumour had it that the Witches knew some of our lore. It's good to know that it's been proven."

Morrigan was… astonished. Blights were terrible things, according to the histories Flemeth kept in her shack, and everyone knew that Wardens knew how to stop them. But she literally couldn't conceive of such a sacrifice… or anyone willing to make it.

"Thanks for the treaties. Don't suppose you've got ways of knowing when a Blight's closer and can give us a head's up?" she continued, shoving that messy auburn hair out of her face again. Despite the wicked scarring and branding, she was sweet-faced, even if her eyes were hard.

"Send one of your people here yearly and I will see what I can do," Flemeth surprisingly promised.

"I'll do it myself. Too many Chantry idiots in our ranks at the moment." The dwarf made a sour expression. "I swear, most of you cloudheads need to sit down and rethink your social and religious systems."

Morrigan chuckled, unable to bear a grudge against the Warden for shooting her. 'Twas… strange… to think well of someone. Somehow she had a feeling this woman would not be so easily manipulated.

"Do you have any news from the north?" Flemeth asked suddenly. "I can offer you shelter for the night."

The Warden gladly accepted and spent the night talking Flemeth and Morrigan's ears off when she was not drinking the home-made mead. Most of it meant nothing to the younger witch, though Flemeth cackled every time Highever and the Couslands were mentioned, and it soon became clear that this woman had a _very_ low opinion of most of Ferelden's nobility. 'Twas interesting and Morrigan suspected she rarely got the chance to speak freely.

When she left the next morning, treaties in hand and still nameless, Flemeth watched her disappear into the sylvan grove with a pensive expression. "It has been so long since I was regarded with respect and not fear," the Witch mused.

Morrigan feared her mother even as she plotted to supplant her one day. But the kind of honest respect the dwarf Warden offered, the treating of equals, was a strange one… and quite pleasant, truth be told. Not that she would mention that to Flemeth lest the crone think she was becoming soft.

"Grey Wardens tend to be more resistant to manipulation, both physical and magical, because of the taint and their training," Flemeth continued. "They are faster, stronger and more enduring than everyone else, though they pay for it with shortened lifespans should they survive the Joining. They are pragmatic and rarely burdened with unnecessary scruples."

"They sound worthy of respect," Morrigan finally ventured.

"They are, to a certain extent. But I have plans for them, plans involving this coming Blight." Flemeth turned to her, golden eyes gleaming. "Come, daughter, and discover the purpose for which you were born."

Morrigan shivered with both fear and anticipation. _Finally_. Perhaps in this Blight she could find a way to be rid of her mother… and gain whatever power this plan of Flemeth's would give for herself.

Maybe, then maybe, she would stop fearing her dreams at night.


	4. 9:22 Dragon

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing, folks! Some things are implied because honestly, I don't want to go there beyond a terse explanation.

…

**9:22 Dragon**

Royal Palace, Denerim, Satinalia

Rendon Howe swallowed a choice oath as a broad-shouldered youth with the pale skin of the sun-shy and long coarse black hair appeared out of nowhere in the crowd, his own hooked nose and cold stare – with Loreen's stone-grey eyes – meeting his. Maric was hosting the Vaels of Starkhaven, a family known for their devotion to kin, hearth and Maker, and he should have expected the brat to show up. But he was imagining the boy a fop or half-priest… Perhaps the Free Marches had done what Rendon had failed.

"Nathaniel," he greeted, trying to find some affection for his eldest. But it was hard to find when the archer's build, broad shoulders and powerful arms, reminded him of the father who'd abandoned his family for an obsolete order.

"Arl Howe," Nate rasped, voice like velvet over stone, an equal lack of warmth in his polite expression.

"How are you?" It was an inane thing to say to the boy he'd refused to allow home for Loreen's funeral.

"Tolerable. I was knighted last year by Prince Colum. Yourself?"

"The usual, I suppose." _Ferretting out secrets and doing the dirty work neither Loghain nor Teagan can bring themselves to do._

Nate's brief smile was hard and sharp. "I'll be returning to the Free Marches with the Vaels. Plenty of work for an enterprising archer, seeing as there's no apparent need for me at home."

Something twisted inside Rendon's guts. Perhaps he'd come down too hard on the boy after he'd puked at that execution. All he wanted to do was harden him enough to fulfil the Howes' duties to the Crown, not make him outright hate his father. Because Rendon knew that cold, heavy emotion well, recalling it from his youth under Tarleton Howe. "Come by the house before you leave. Delilah and Thomas will want to see you."

"Delilah will, but Thom won't. I'm too much of a threat to his inheritance," Nate drawled sardonically. "Have you given thought to who you'll marry my sister to? Seamus Dumar of Kirkwall's her age and there isn't a man in Ferelden who's really suitable, age-wise, with Fergus wedding that Crow's sister."

Only years of self-imposed discipline kept Rendon from gawping at his son. Nate's sources were extraordinary for a sixteen-year-old. What had the Free Marches made him?

For the first time in several years, Rendon Howe felt the cold slither of fear in his gut. This man would not hesitate at kinslaying if he felt it necessary. And if he was a true descendant of Elias Howe, he was cunning enough to find a good reason – or make one.

"Father, are you alright?" Nate asked. "I thought you would be pleased that I am no longer weak."

_Shit, I've shown weakness._ "I am… impressed," he conceded.

Something flickered in those cold grey eyes and Rendon realised that the boy still wanted his approval. It could be a tight fine path to walk, a thin rope strung over a precipice, but he could turn this weapon to Ferelden's use. "I'm assuming that the Vaels have trained you in the appropriate courtesies and social graces?"

"Of course." A faint line appeared between the boy's brows as he tried to figure out what was going on.

Rendon allowed himself a smile. "Wonderful. The Hounds of the King need competent agents. As much as I respect the Houndmaster, his stomach is a little delicate when it comes to choosing people. He could use someone of your calibre."

Flattery, a hint of fatherly pride and the sense of needing this son of his rolled into three little sentences. People called Rendon crude because he typically dispensed with small talk and pointless courtesies, but he was not without talent in manipulation. You just needed to know what strings to pull.

Of course, it worked. Nate's eyes flickered again, his wanting Rendon's approval warring with the cold hatred curled in his gut. The wanting won out – for now. But the day would come when it was no longer enough.

_So long as he's strong enough to serve Ferelden and manage Thomas, it will have to do,_ Rendon thought as he gestured to Nate to join him. _Hate and ambition are more trustworthy than so-called love and honour any day of the week. Love is for women… and no son of mine shall be a woman._

…

Sinead Cousland felt very lost in this crowd of adults. More used to being quietly ignored at home unless her parents wanted something, she hated the itchy brocade of her blue dress and the tight braids her long hair had been pulled into. But she was a Cousland, and unlucky or not, she had to be here so that Ferelden's nobility – into whom she'd probably wed – knew she wasn't sickly or crazy.

Beside her at the children's table, watched over by a pair of indulgent nurses and a stern-eyed governess, Habren Bryland chattered on about showing some Bann's son his place when he offered her flowers. Everyone called the green-eyed girl with her long brown hair pretty, but Sinead was fairly sure that being mean to people because they were nobles didn't make a person pretty. But she didn't say anything, for children were to be seen and not heard, as Nan impressed on her so often.

Now and then her parents would bring by some people, mostly men or parents with lads, around to show her off like a cow. Everyone knew that King Maric wasn't getting any younger, though he was still hale and whole, and that Cailan was… not very mature. Some people didn't like Lady Anora, Teyrn Loghain's daughter, though the blonde young woman was perfectly polite and more noble-like than Habren. A couple thought Father would make a wonderful King when Maric went to the Maker.

Sinead knew that everyone loved her father in Highever. Bryce and Eleanor were good, fair people and Fergus was very much like them. They looked a little askance at her because of when she was born, but they trusted that Teyrn Cousland knew what he was doing.

But Sinead heard the whispers every time a cow died or a crop failed. No one said she was a mage, because the Couslands hadn't bred a mage since before Hafter, but they looked at her and wondered if she was going to be bad luck for the teyrnir.

_Maybe I should run away. Then I wouldn't be bad luck,_ she thought glumly. Sinead loved her family very much and as a Cousland, it was her duty to serve the teyrnir. If she was gone, maybe no more crops and cows would die.

If she ran away though, she'd probably be sold to Orlesians or Tevinters or something. Maybe if she was bad luck, she could give the Empress hives and save Ferelden like that. But she'd probably get burned as a witch, and Sinead had been burned once as a little kid. She didn't want to get burned.

Alfstanna, heir to Waking Sea and her second cousin, gasped and patted down her hair. She was thirteen now and ready to be betrothed to some Bann or maybe even one of Arl Wulff's boys. Her father supported his kinsman Bryce wholeheartedly. "Maker, Bann Teagan's coming over here!" she gasped.

'Bann Teagan' was a tall man in fine red linen and brown leather instead of the silks preferred by many of the nobles. He was kind-eyed and auburn-haired, though his even features were lined with some kind of sadness and grief, like he had a lot of burdens on his shoulders. She knew that he was related to the Guerrins somehow because he sat with them at Fergus' wedding.

"My ladies," he greeted, bowing to them like they were adults. Alfstanna sighed happily and Habren actually giggled. Sinead smiled. He seemed nice. She noticed he had a gold ring etched with a snarling mabari on his right thumb. Everyone else seemed to miss it.

Arl Eamon, who looked like an older henpecked version of him, showed up with Lady Isolde carrying Connor. Aldous claimed that Orlesians brought their kids with them to every social event so they'd learn how to be polite. After the temper tantrum thrown by the Duchesse du Mont's son last year in Highever, Sinead doubted it. But she said nothing.

Lady Isolde looked like her mother buying a dress. Sinead had the feeling she was already deciding who her son was going to marry. Orlesians were like that, Aldous said, though Sinead was now of an age where they might start talking about marrying her to someone. She wasn't sure she liked the idea of being traded like a cow.

She rose to her feet because protocol demanded a return curtsey. "Arl Eamon, Arlessa Isolde, Bann Teagan," she greeted in reply as the other girls belatedly stood up. "You honour us with your presences."

"You are too kind, Lady Sinead," Teagan responded with a faint smile as Isolde studied her thoughtfully. "The honour is ours."

She smiled broadly, then remembered she'd lost a baby tooth and shut her lips. He was nice. Maybe if she had to be traded like a cow, he'd be okay to marry.

"Your manners are exquisite, Lady Cousland," the Arlessa noted approvingly. "Though, next time, do not bow your head so low. You are the child of a Duc- a Teyrn – and need not show such subservience to anyone but your parents, the Mac Tirs and the King."

If looks could kill, the glare Habren bestowed upon her should have dispatched Sinead to the Maker's side. "Merci," she thanked in her rudimentary Orlesian. "But you are my elders and I should show you respect."

Eamon chuckled as her parents quickly removed themselves from conversation with Arl Bryland to come over to the table. "You'll be breaking hearts in a few years," he observed.

"I hope not," Sinead replied. "I think a broken heart would hurt, and I don't want to hurt anyone."

Bann Teagan seemed to approve of what she'd said as her father laughed a little too heartily. "Pup won't be in a position to break hearts," he told the Arl. "We intend to see her settled in either betrothal or the Chantry within the next couple years."

Isolde's expression sharpened. "Perhaps we could have tea some time and discuss… certain possibilities?"

Eleanor's face was bland and polite as she replied, "We'll see." Which Sinead knew meant no.

_I'm going to marry either Thomas or Vaughn,_ she realised with dismay, her mind running over the families they were already allied with. Rendon Howe was an old friend of her father's, though she didn't like the cold gleam in his eye, and Vaughn Uriens' father was the Arl of Denerim, whose support would be important in the Landsmeet. Both Thom and Vaughn ran in the same crowd, a group of young men who left elven girls looking sad and bruised, according to the gossip she'd overheard.

_Maybe I should join the Chantry,_ she thought sadly. _I wouldn't be bad luck there._

Perhaps when they said children born at night on First Day were bad luck, they meant they were unlucky in life. Because she knew that neither Vaughn nor Thom were nice people but if her duty meant that she had to marry one, she'd have to obey her parents.

A Cousland always did their duty, even if they were unlucky.

…

"The Couslands are winning themselves no friends by sticking to the North," Eamon observed as he poured himself, Teagan, Maric and Loghain shots of West Hills brandy.

Maric nodded moodily, swirling his snifter. "That poor child. I'd not wish Thom or Vaughn on any woman, let alone a child as sweet as Sinead."

Loghain tossed back his brandy before speaking. "You need to muzzle Cousland and encourage Cailan to grow up."

A queer expression crossed the King of Ferelden's face as he regarded his oldest friend. "Cailan will have to grow up soon enough," he said cryptically. "Let him be a lad for a year or two longer."

"The Teyrn has a point," Teagan said cautiously. "And Bryce has not done anything treasonous. His actions _are_ strengthening Ferelden."

"But he gathers allies for the Landsmeet in case Cailan is found… unsuitable." Maric sighed, looking very old. "You should have taken the throne when I offered it to you, Loghain."

The Teyrn of Gwaren grunted. "And Cousland would be in open rebellion because of that damned ancient treaty from Calenhad's time."

"Old friend, 'that damned ancient treaty' is practically bred into the bones of every noble family in the North," Maric responded. "That is why they breed true in both character and looks."

"And why they look down on Anora," Loghain observed sourly. "It's not arrogance to call my daughter nearly as capable as Rowan."

It was true. Anora was a capable young woman who would be the head to Cailan's heart. The trick would be to get them to work in harness together. But Teagan knew that Eamon, however much he respected the Teyrn as a general, was uncomfortable with a 'common-born' Queen and would take subtle umbrage at Anora being compared to their beloved sister.

"In a generation or two, the Mac Tirs will be accepted in the North," Eamon assured him. "It… might be an idea to consider marrying one of the daughters. Delilah Howe and Alfstanna of Waking Sea are both of an age to be betrothed – and forgive my bluntness, but your own lineage hangs on a thread as fine as Maric's."

"Cailan and Anora's firstborn will be a Theirin, but either the second or third will bear the name Mac Tir and inherit Gwaren," Maric answered. "Perhaps by then Fergus Cousland will have bred and we could betroth a Mac Tir to one of his children."

Eamon bowed his head in acquiescence. "I should have realised you'd sorted that out. I apologise if I spoke out of turn."

Maric shook his head as Loghain, aware of Eamon's… concerns… regarded him dourly. "We're all worried about Ferelden, brother. You meant well."

"Speaking of ambition, did you see the elder Howe boy?" Teagan asked, changing the subject. "Rendon practically offered me the lad on a platter as an agent in the Free Marches."

"He's a cold one," Maric agreed. "More charismatic than his father though."

"I cannot help but feel he'd not weep if his father died and left him the Arling," Teagan continued. "Given what we know of Thomas Howe, I intend to keep a close eye on young Nathaniel and make sure he survives to inherit."

"He might be worse than Rendon," Eamon observed softly. "You and I both know he was trained by the Dolori, brother."

The Dolori were a sect within the Order of Seekers of the Chantry, dedicated to dealing with threats in a more aggressive manner than the Divine's agents. Most were disgraced nobles or penitent sinners who dedicated their lives to eliminating one great threat to the faith. Because their lives were given to the Maker, it wasn't suicide for them to die taking out their targets. The Tevinter Imperium and the Qunari both had reasons to hate and fear them.

"Trained, yes, but not one of them," Teagan pointed out. "If he's… unsuitable, there's Delilah. Marry her to a strong lad from the South and you'll have a good Arl of Amaranthine."

"Perhaps one of Wulff's boys? West Hill is feeling a little isolated," Maric suggested. "They seem to be steady as the old warhorse."

"It's a thought. I'll drop hints to Rendon." Maric leaned back in his seat and sighed. "Teagan, you need to find a wife. People are talking about your bachelorhood."

The Bann of Rainesferre smiled mirthlessly. "I am the Houndmaster. Nearly all of the eligible women close to my age are notorious gossips and the rest are too young or old for the purpose."

Maric's blue gaze was steely. "I can find a couple competent lady knights. What of Cauthrien?"

"Married to her job as Loghain's second," Teagan promptly replied, earning a dry chuckle from the Teyrn himself.

"If it wasn't for your reputation amongst the widows and barmaids of Redcliffe, I'd wonder if you preferred your own gender," Eamon observed with a sigh. "Not that I mind personally, but your continuous unwed status is drawing attention to you. Every halfway ambitious Bann and her daughter see you as a challenge, Teagan."

"And that is why I will not wed them," he retorted. "I will marry for the good of Ferelden, if I must, but I have no desire to simply wed for ambition. Too many of our generation have, Eamon, and look at their offspring."

He sighed inwardly. It was a pity no unwed woman amongst the Fereldan nobility had the mixture of tact and grace needed to be a diplomat and spymaster's wife. The only one he'd found so far was eight years old and completely beyond his reach, even were he so inclined to be such a lecher to betroth himself to a child.

"Give it a few years," Loghain suggested sympathetically. "Some of the girls might mature into something worthwhile."

"I will not marry a baby," Teagan responded sharply – more than necessary.

"It wouldn't be a bad thing to look at the merchants and freeholders," Maric said musingly. "Just keep an open mind."

"…As you wish, Your Majesty," Teagan acquiesced through gritted teeth.

He was a Guerrin and could do no less than his duty.

Loghain stood up, stretching. "I should get some sleep. The hours you keep are ridiculous, Maric."

"No more ridiculous than that armour of yours," the King retorted affectionately. "Goodnight, old friend."

"Goodnight. Try not to do anything stupid while I'm asleep." Loghain nodded curtly to the Guerrins before leaving the room.

Maric waited a few minutes before asking, "How's Alistair?"

"He's settled into the Chantry, though setting new records for the amount of pots scrubbed," Teagan answered carefully. "He seems to have a knack for asking the wrong question at the wrong time."

The King of Ferelden chuckled sadly. "Fiona's like that. Is he… happy there?"

"He's still refusing to see me," Eamon said heavily. "But he's stopped complaining, so I guess he's content there."

Teagan knew – through Duncan – that Alistair was more resigned to his situation than anything else. The boy was terrified of being thought a rival for Cailan's throne and refused to show anything resembling a backbone. Anora was keeping tabs on the youth, he knew, and possibly had threatened dire consequences if he developed signs of independence. But Teagan couldn't prove anything.

"If he's truly unhappy there once he comes of age, I've already given permission to Duncan to conscript him," Maric finally said. "Being a Warden's a hard life… but it might be better than lyrium addiction for him."

Teagan shuddered, recalling his last conversation with the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Covered in the black blood of a darkspawn raiding party that ventured into Redcliffe lands, the half-Rivaini regarded Teagan with those hard dark eyes and softly promised that if Alistair wound up a pawn of politics, the Bann of Rainesferre would be becoming _intimately_ acquainted with the life of a Warden. Given that his second Brosca was hauling creatures directly from nightmare onto a pyre at the time, Teagan took the warning to heart.

"Brosca would certainly agree," he said lightly. "She appears to revel in it."

Maric grinned. "Did I tell you she competed in the Grand Proving hosted for me by Endrin under a false name?"

"Only a dozen times," Eamon sighed.

"That woman is extraordinarily talented. I've never seen a dwarf so fast and agile in heavy armour." Maric shook his head in amazement. "If we'd had her with us in the Deep Roads-"

He fell silent, as he always did, bound by unknown oaths to the Wardens into silence about that ill-fated expedition.

"I wish I could acknowledge him," he finally said sadly. "He deserves better than early dotage or an unmarked grave in the Deep Roads."

Teagan took a deep breath and exchanged a glance with Eamon. "Put a codicil in your will legitimising him," he suggested softly.

"If I do that, Cousland _or_ Anora will have the lad killed," Maric responded regretfully.

"Then pen a document which is to be kept secret until your death," Teagan urged. "And have Loghain enforce it. If you swear him to silence, he'll obey and keep Anora in line."

The King of Ferelden regarded his brother-in-law in astonishment. "Why didn't I think of that before?" Then he looked at the locket he wore constantly and sighed. "I'm sorry, Fiona. I know you don't want him involved in this mess. But… he deserves this. And one day Ferelden might need him."

Teagan sighed in relief, feeling a burden slide from his shoulders. The Theirin line would continue, one way or the other.


	5. 9:24 to 27 Dragon

Note: Thanks for reading! Butchering canon timelines left, right and centre: the events of _The Silent Grove, Those Who Speak _and _Until We Sleep _will occur about ten years earlier because that's how the plot nugs roll.

…

**9:24-27 Dragon**

Castle Cousland, Wintersend 9:24

"I want to go to the Chantry."

Fergus spat out the mouthful of wine he'd just taken as Sinead, ten years of age and threatening to become a beautiful woman, stood up and made her sudden announcement. Conversation at the high table ceased, everyone from their parents to the elves serving the lower tables gawping at the girl. But the heir to Highever, conversant with his little sister's expression, knew she was serious. Deadly so.

"I… Why, pup?" Bryce finally managed to ask, his rich baritone unstrung.

Her reply broke his heart. "Because I'm bad luck and I don't want to make anyone else's life miserable. In the Chantry I might make up whatever I did that was so bad that the Maker made me bad luck."

When he opened his mouth to speak, Oriana placed her hand on his arm. "I think she will be happier there, _mi amor._ Let this happen," she murmured.

"Pup, I…" Bryce was, for the first time in his life, lost for words.

"Every time something goes wrong, everyone looks at me and I know it's my fault," she continued sadly. "I know you tried, Mother and Father, but the Maker made me bad luck and you can't change that."

"Love is stronger than bad luck," Fergus reminded her for the thousandth time.

Sinead's blue gaze was heartbreakingly sad as she shook her head. "No, it isn't, Fergus. This is the best thing I can do for Highever."

That damned sense of duty put into them by Aldenon when they swore fealty to Calenhad compelled her to make this decision. Fergus had watched his little sister since her first trip to Denerim and realised that she understood where their father would likely betroth her. Sinead was a smart girl, and even if she didn't understand _why_ the pretty elven maids cried when Thom and Vaughn were around, she understood the cause.

_Father doesn't pay attention to the gossip because Thom and Vaughn behave when they're in Highever,_ Fergus thought sourly. _Or he thinks they're just a little too rough at times._

Joining the Chantry would be the only way Sinead would escape such a betrothal. With her familial connections, she could very easily become a Seeker, a Knight-Captain in the templars or maybe even Grand Cleric. Perhaps it was also a way for her to achieve her own ambitions, unfettered by a husband or children.

"You are certain, pup?" Bryce finally asked. "Once given to the Chantry, you will be no more than another novice."

Sinead smiled sadly. "I know. And I'm certain."

Bryce bowed his head, his expression subtly relieved. Though he and Eleanor had never told Sinead she was unlucky outright, their glances in her direction when Oriana lost her first two babes and had difficulty carrying Oren said volumes. Sinead was far from stupid.

_And now I've had Oren, our line is a bit more secure,_ Fergus thought grimly. _Especially with Anora and possibly Cailan sterile._

The Summer Fever Anora contracted during his wedding to Oriana left a high rate of barrenness in its survivors. The Couslands hadn't breathed a word about the potential because Ferelden needed stability. But he knew that the possibility played on Bryce's mind and so he planned for an orderly transition.

Cailan had played ram with nearly every woman he could and not a bastard was left in his wake. Maric's hair grew greyer by the day as the young prince's exploits with the ladies and his pranks, usually on the dour Loghain or crude Rendon, became common knowledge. He thought it a great lark, but only loyalty to the King kept both men from throttling the little shit. For some reason, the young man never pulled a prank on Bryce or Fergus.

_I hope he matures. Father knows how to run Highever, but he's managed to alienate Eamon, Wulff and several prominent members of the Bannorn._ Fergus loved his father, but it was one thing to rule a smallish trade port and another to run an entire country, especially when the unconscious arrogance showed through. The Couslands were the oldest family in Ferelden and Bryce knew it.

_"Old is all very well, but old blood can be spilt as quickly as new blood,"_ Oriana's brother Rennio had observed dryly on their last visit to Antiva. _"Your father needs to be a bit more subtle."_

Fergus looked sorrowfully at his little sister. Once given to the Chantry as an initiate, her status as a Cousland would mean little. She would have no rank beyond any the Divine gave her. Given her fears about hurting someone with her 'bad luck', she'd probably never have children, so she'd likely wind up in the clergy. Given that she enjoyed reading and gardening, perhaps she'd even be happy there.

_Chantry initiate or not, you're still my little sister,_ he vowed fiercely. _You always will be._

…

Lothering, Satinalia 9:25

Alistair glared at the chattering novices as they walked by, giggling over Mother Moriah's wet shift. He wanted to be anywhere but here, maybe even with the dogs back in Redcliffe, but Princess-to-be Anora had made it clear that him leaving the Chantry would be tantamount to high treason and treated accordingly.

Now seventeen and into most of his growth, he was to be knighted and oathed as a templar this coming night. Anora wanted him to be a templar as soon as possible, reminding him that he was to take a vow of celibacy as not to confuse the line of succession.

Alistair understood why King Maric (he couldn't think of him as Father or just Maric) hadn't acknowledged him. It hurt, but he understood. The bastard son of an elven servant had no place amongst the heirs of Calenhad. No wonder Bann Teagan had always looked sad around him; the man had a good heart, exemplified by returning his mother's repaired amulet on his last birthday. Even Arl Eamon looked regretful.

_"We know the depths of your sacrifice, Alistair. And we are grateful for it,"_ the old man told him.

_It isn't fair,_ he thought sourly with the knowledge that life was a bitch. _Why can't I just agree not to have kids? I know there's ways not to have them 'cause Sister Rosalie's dispensing them!_

"Who pissed in your porridge this morning?" observed a rich contralto.

"The Revered Mother. I have to take vows tonight," Alistair answered, meeting the amused blue gaze of Jaen Hawke, resident apostate healer and entropic punisher of Lothering's bullies. Her status was the one secret he'd managed to keep from the Chantry, mostly as a fuck you. He couldn't kill himself because suicide was a sin and he didn't want to become Dolori and die for the Maker. So far as he was concerned, the Maker could go fuck himself.

"Ouch." Hawke had the grace to wince. "I've got an idea. Let's run away to Denerim."

Alistair looked around, and seeing no one in earshot, retorted, "Yeah, sure, great idea. Go to the home of the woman who'll kill me if I leave the Chantry."

Jaen grinned. "It's the last thing she'll expect. Besides, I've got a friend in Denerim, and if he can hide a Hawke, I'm sure he can hide a Theirin."

The half-elf looked at her. "Maker's breath, you're serious!"

She nodded, losing the grin. "Da's gone missing and the templars are sniffing around me because rumours fly. Beth has enough control now that she, Carver and Ma should be safe in Kirkwall."

"But you don't want to leave Ferelden."

"Maker's breath, no! It might be a shithole but it's my native shithole." Jaen smiled cheerfully at him. "I… may not be able to hide my powers all the time. But if I have a templar with me…"

"And here I thought you wanted me to run away with you because you loved me," he said mournfully, knowing full well she didn't like guys.

Jaen snickered. "I'd sooner fuck Mother Moriah."

"You and half of Lothering-"

"BROTHER ALISTAIR!" Moriah's screechy voice, as high and big as the tits beneath her layered robes, cut all noise within the Chantry grounds short.

"Shit. I guess she found out I was the one who rigged the bucket." Alistair shuddered.

"If we run now, you might escape her," Jaen said coaxingly.

The royal bastard looked over his shoulder at Ser Maynard, standing absent-faced and slightly drooling at the front door of the Chantry, and shuddered once again. "What the hell," he said. "All Anora can do is kill me. Lyrium will turn me into a drooling idiot."

"I hate to break it to you, Alistair, but you're already one," Jaen laughed as she started to run.

Alistair grinned and chased her. Sure, he could die – but at least he'd get to live first.

…

Denerim, First Day 9:27

The bells tolled for Maric, lost at sea, and for Cailan crowned King with Anora as his Queen.

Alistair sat in the last pew within the Chantry and bowed his head. A titan had fallen and already his elder brother was found wanting because he wasn't the Saviour of Ferelden. Cailan wasn't a bad person, just… careless. But the Bannorn had voted for him because he was married to Loghain's daughter and they wanted to piss off Bryce Cousland, who'd been put forth as a candidate by Rendon Howe. The Banns thought he could be easily controlled while Anora worked on the administrative side of things.

What a fucking mess.

Daveth slid in beside him, making a derisive noise at the constant praying. The half-Chasind respected nothing but animals and coin, but he was a clever bastard with connections to boot. He, Jaen and Alistair had quickly become the most sought-out trio in the Denerim underworld, pulling jobs from the Antivan Crows to the Hounds of the King. Given that the bottom-feeders had begun moving shortly after the renegade templar moved to Denerim and Maric disappeared, Alistair had no problems with taking them down. He was doing more good for Ferelden here instead of in the Chantry on lyrium.

"Somethin's stuck in Duncan's craw," he observed softly, eyeing the dark-skinned Warden-Commander warily. "Him an' Brosca look like they've shat bricks, an' not because Maric's dead."

Jaen shrugged. "Not our problem."

"It will be if he decides to conscript us," the thief said. "Brosca's got that look in her eye."

"You know, a sudden change in scenery might be a good idea," Jaen agreed, changing her attitude. "We've more or less plumbed the depths of Denerim."

"Not Orlais," Alistair said softly. "That would be tantamount to a declaration of war if I went there."

Bann Teagan had been running interference between him and Anora on the condition he remained discreet and did nothing treasonous. The man actually appeared pleased he'd developed a backbone, though a trifle concerned for his safety.

"Pfft. I was thinkin' Highever," Daveth grinned. "Rumour has it Bryce Cousland's got hisself a nice little stash of treasure I'm sure he won't be needin' now he ain't gonna be King."

"He isn't out of the running yet," Jaen drawled as she rose to her feet and genuflected towards the Holy Flame. "Cailan's young, stupid and heirless."

"I somehow doubt that Anora would let them take over the throne so easily," Alistair pointed out softly. "And she's got Loghain."

"And a whole bevy of Crows bought and paid for," Hawke chuckled. "Very pragmatic, our Anora."

"She's welcome to the damned throne. They both are," Alistair agreed, following them out of the Chantry. "I don't want the fucking-"

A vicious brawl had broken out near the gates, a lithe elf fighting with two bulkier humans over a dead white deer on the ground. "You blasphemers!" the elf yelled in an Antivan accent.

"Must be Dalish," Jaen said, noting the tattoos on his face. "That's a halla and they're sacred."

Alistair waded into the brawl before the attention of the Watch was drawn. Kylon was a shrewd bastard who wanted to hang Daveth. (Anyone with sense wanted to hang the pickpocket, but since Alistair was an accomplice he'd wind up on the gallows beside him and that would be kind of awkward for everyone concerned). He felt the ebb and tide of Hawke's magic as she discreetly hampered the thugs with entropic spells; she was almost as big a shining knight as he, which drove Daveth insane.

It turned out that there was a third man involved, someone who coshed the elf neatly with an evil grin. "Guess we won't be paying for a woman tonight, boys," he told his friends.

Alistair smote him then and there, driving him to the ground as Daveth, looking pissed, entered the fray and punched the other thugs in the kidneys. "Fuck me," he breathed as someone yelled for the Watch. "Ya're fuckin' insane, both of yas."

"Grab the elf," he retorted. "Kylon will want to hang someone."

It wasn't quite how he wanted to leave Denerim but it would have to do. They left the elf's halla behind and blended into the crowd heading out, Hawke's 'nobody notice me' spell lulling people into assuming they were nothing special. It wasn't blood magic, but related more to the sleep spell as it sent the mind into a slight drowse. At least that's how she explained it. He took her word for it, because he knew she was death on blood mages. They'd killed enough.

Half an hour outside of Denerim, the elf awoke and puked down Alistair's back. "I love you too," he drawled.

"Uhhnnn…" The elf moaned once Alistair laid him out on the grass. He was olive-skinned and fair-haired, lithely muscular and honed like the leaf-bladed daggers sheathed in his belt. "I… What was I thinking?"

"I kinda thought the same thin'," Daveth muttered in the background. "Gettin' worked up over a dead deer-"

"It was… a halla. Sacred to the Creators…" The elf groaned and sat up, rubbing his head where he'd been coshed gingerly. "Maker, what a fool I am. Master Ignacio will kill me for not doing my contract…"

"Crow," Jaen breathed. "Fuck me, we saved an Antivan Crow."

"And I am in your debt," the elf responded, his voice stronger as the apostate healed him. "My name is Zevran Arainai."

"I'm Alistair, that's Jaen and the wiry little shit's Daveth," the ex-templar replied, ignoring Daveth's outstretched middle finger.

Zevran's eyes focused on Alistair's face… and then he laughed. "Saved by the man I was hired to kill!"

"Let me guess: Anora," Alistair sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. This Arainai might be a Crow, but he was weakened and outnumbered. Jaen stopped healing him then and there.

"Yes. She paid me five gold sovereigns," the elf replied.

"Five sovereigns? Huh, royal bastards must be cheap," Daveth muttered.

Arainai's honey-brown eyes flashed. "Royal bastard? We were not told of this! We would have charged more… and been better prepared."

"Pardon me for being happy you weren't," the royal bastard in question observed.

"This is… awkward." Arainai sat up. "I owe you a life debt. But my Master has accepted the contract, which cannot be revoked until you, he or Queen Anora is dead."

"Well, I'd rather not die," Alistair retorted. "And… killing Anora would be kind of awkward."

"Are you sayin' we oughta take on a Crow Master…?" Daveth breathed. "Ya fuckin' insane, ya know that?"

"I know you only give a shit about yourself and maybe Jaen, but just because I've resigned myself to celibacy for the sake of Ferelden doesn't mean I intend to die for it unless it's in battle," Alistair told the thief.

"Umm, you're discussing killing the guy's Master in front of him," Jaen pointed out.

"I have the feeling that Zevran would very much like to take his place, if I understand the, ah, promotional structure of the Crows," the bastard replied.

"You understand very well," Zevran agreed. "But… he is in Antiva."

"We needed to leave Denerim anyways," Alistair laughed, his heartbeat speeding up. To leave Ferelden, to go to a place where no one would know who he was…

Zevran smiled. "I know just the sea captain to take us there."


	6. 9:27 to 9:29 Dragon

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Taking a slight liberty with Flemeth's prophecies to Maric for the sake of the story. Alistair's adventures in Thedas will be written separately to this story as it is Fereldencentric.

Teagan is my choice of POV for the more complex political plots because he understands them intimately. The others can only see bits and pieces. Also, I'm making several characters far more sensible in how they react to the Blight. :P

…

**9:27-29 Dragon**

Redcliffe Castle, Wintersend 9:27

"_Alistair's gone where?!"_

Eamon's face was an alarming shade of puce and even Isolde looked perturbed at Teagan's quiet announcement, delivered in the lull which followed the Wintersend feast at Redcliffe Castle. Of all the things he'd expected from the suddenly rebellious royal bastard, hopping on a ship with his thief and apostate companions was the last. Going to Antiva, of all places, in the company of the Crow sent to assassinate him.

"It's out of our hands for the moment," the Bann of Rainesferre observed, eyeing the bottle of West Hills brandy longingly but quashing that urge to drink. Senior Enchanter Wynne had been… _emphatic_… about the consequences of excessive alcohol intake after his last check up with the best healer in Ferelden.

"This is what happens when you try to juggle too many balls," his elder brother finally said, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. "You've gone and been too clever. What if Anora and Cailan think we're traitors?"

"Cailan will accept that document his father left behind and I'm sure Loghain will keep Anora in check," Teagan assured him with a sincerity that he didn't feel. In the months following his father being declared officially dead and marrying Anora, the young King had become reckless, almost heedless, in behaviour. Only in Redcliffe or Rainesferre did Teagan escape the polite bills for whores, alcohol and damage to certain establishments.

"It has been two years and no sign of an heir," Isolde said worriedly. She might have been born Orlesian, but her son was Fereldan and in the thick of the political battles – and if she was devoted to anything, it was to Connor.

"If Anora were a little younger, I'd not feel concerned for another year or two," Eamon agreed, lips white with restrained fury. "But the closer a woman comes to thirty, the less fertile she is."

"And the Couslands are simply sitting and waiting," Teagan observed.

He would have said more except that a harsh, too-familiar voice cut through the servants' attempts to stop him at the door. "Where the hell is Bann Teagan-?"

"I am here, Loghain," he called out, stepping away from his brother and sister-in-law. "If you're here to discuss business, we can use Eamon's study."

The Teyrn of Gwaren scowled at Isolde (and by extension Eamon, for having the poor taste to marry an Orlesian) but nodded. "Fine."

It was a short walk to Eamon's study down the hall, but Teagan took the time to order his explanation to the Hero of the River Dane. Loghain was at best a chancy ally, but the Houndmaster prayed that his duty to Ferelden would overcome his fear for Anora's position.

Once the door was closed, Loghain's heavy shoulders bowed beneath their eternal weight of silverite chevalier's plate. "I lost the trail at Wycombe," he admitted harshly. "I-I can't believe he's…"

"Neither can I, but we must assume so – at least officially." As Loghain's pale gaze snapped up, Teagan allowed himself a thin smile. "Maric was always certain that something would happen to him once Cailan came of age, that he would no longer be around. I don't know why, but I think he has disappeared for some purpose we know nothing about."

The general's eyes narrowed. "The only two secrets he kept from me were an oath to Flemeth and whatever happened on that damned Deep Roads expedition."

"Flemeth?" Even Teagan didn't know that Maric had met the Witch of the Wilds.

Loghain nodded grimly. "Aye. She saved us from the lickspittles who slew Maric's mother… and my father. She told him four things, only three of which I know."

Teagan met those hard eyes, shattered by grief, and gathered his courage. Looking into the gaze of Loghain was like staring squarely at an avalanche: relentless, unstoppable and knowing that only luck or great skill would spare you. "Tell me."

"The first was that I would betray him time and again, each one worse than the last. The second was that he would have to become what he hated to save what he loved. And the third was that a Blight was coming but he would not be here to see it." Loghain's grating voice was steady, raw with feeling and relentless as he. "I and Rowan arranged for him to discover the perfidy of the Orlesian bard Katriel… but I didn't tell Maric that she'd repented and given her loyalty to him. Then I… sent Rowan to him because _she_ needed to be the Queen for Ferelden's sake. It… broke his heart but it hardened him."

"And it broke yours." Teagan smiled mirthlessly at the Teyrn's startled glance. "Rowan kept a journal and I have read it. I will say nothing for she was my sister."

Loghain looked regretful, even sorrowful. "I… thank you."

"And no doubt you are here because Anora has expressed concern about the bastard Alistair leaving Ferelden," Teagan continued mercilessly. "I understand that your daughter has to manage everything because of Cailan's youth, but I wish she – and by extension you – would share the faith in me that Maric held."

Now he would have to be careful how he presented the truth. Loghain was sharp and he held nothing back from Anora, which would spell difficulty for Ferelden in the coming years. Sometimes plausible deniability was important for a monarch. "Alistair has formed an advantageous alliance with an apostate named Jaen Hawke and a pickpocket named Daveth. They are the go-to people for my agents when it comes to dealing with matters the Hounds cannot touch directly."

Those grey eyes narrowed. "You… knew about this?"

"I have already instructed Nathaniel Howe to make contact with them in Kirkwall," Teagan responded calmly. "He's young, but the best connected of all the Hounds in the central part of Thedas."

"He'll be a better Arl than Thomas," Loghain grunted in agreement.

"Indeed. Now the relevance to this is that whether Maric's absence involves either Flemeth or the Grey Wardens, Alistair's presence will flush out interested parties. He might even find him." Teagan squared his shoulders and looked Loghain in the eye. "And if… a Blight truly _is_ coming to Ferelden, then we have a Theirin heir safely out of the way."

Loghain abruptly turned away from him, staring at the portrait of Rowan on the wall. "Cailan is an idiot. Maric spent too much time giving him what he didn't have instead of giving what he _did_ have that made him such a fine King."

"Cailan is… headstrong. But he is my nephew. And Rowan's son."

"After we lost the army at West Hills, Maric commanded me to never come back for him again. One man's life is not worth a kingdom."

Teagan was capable of reading between the lines of that terse statement. "I… understand."

"I will do my best to reassure Anora," the Teyrn added over his shoulder. "But she is worried. Do you think she likes the idea of being barren?"

Teagan spread his hands helplessly. "None of us like it. And… there is the possibility it's Cailan's fault."

"Except perhaps Bryce Cousland. It's almost like he knows something we don't." Loghain's gauntleted fists clenched. "Anora lost some of her physical strength with that damn summer fever she caught in Highever."

The Bann of Rainesferre went very still. "…I need to consult with Senior Enchanter Wynne and the Chantry physicians."

Loghain turned around suddenly, craggy face still but his eyes burning with a cold rage. "You think that illness may have something to do with her difficulty in conceiving an heir?"

"Perhaps." Sensing that Loghain was ready for the war path, Teagan held up his hand. "Let me investigate first. Bryce Cousland's ambitious, but not a traitor. He may have kept any knowledge of the illness and potential side effects to himself to keep Ferelden stable."

Loghain took a shuddering breath. "I'd… do something similar," he conceded.

"I know it hurts that your daughter's involved. But one woman's life is not worth a kingdom. Let me investigate this illness first and we will go from there."

"I will wait. But one hint that he knew about this and kept it to himself for selfish reasons-"

"He will be guilty of high treason. But if you move against him with nothing less than concrete evidence, Loghain, we'll have the North up in arms."

The Teyrn grunted. "Fighting the Orlesians was easier. One hint of weakness from them and they'll be knocking on our doors."

"Empress Celene is more interested in trying to reform her country than conquering her neighbours," Teagan observed dryly.

"But her nobles want us back because we're the only ones who kicked the bastards out."

"Us and Kirkwall." Teagan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I might send out some feelers to the Viscount, work on that mutual dislike of the Orlesians. It's a contemptible reason for an alliance, but they're one of the closest ports and the centre of Chantry power in the East."

"Ferelden can stand on its own-"

"No, we can't." Teagan mercilessly interrupted Loghain's reflexive insistence. "Isolation does no one good, Teyrn. And one good thing about the Free Marches is that they're too busy squabbling to try and conquer us."

Loghain grunted in displeasure but didn't argue the point for now. Instead he accepted Teagan's offer of hospitality for the night and went straight to bed, dispensing with bath and food until morning.

When the Teyrn was gone, Teagan sunk into his brother's chair, shaking with the nerves he'd deliberately suppressed during the discussion. Loghain had been diverted… for now. But should the slightest hint of treason on Cousland's part be discovered, or anything that could be construed as treasonous, the avalanche would fall on the Teyrn of Highever's head.

_If he knew anything about the effect that summer fever could have had on Anora, I'll find it hard to pity him,_ the Bann of Rainesferre thought grimly. _Damn Calenhad for signing that damn treaty and damn the Couslands for keeping it in mind._

…

Rainesferre, Summerday 9:28

"A tree branch fell on you?"

The age of the Chantry sister tending to his broken arm was hard to determine beyond somewhere in her adolescence because of her solemn countenance, but something about the pretty young thing was familiar. Teagan winced in pain as she calmly wrapped a bandage around the splints on his shield-arm, a Chantry brother with the arms of a blacksmith already having wrenched the limb back into place.

"If by tree branch you mean 'that club it pleases Ser Donall to call his practice mace', then yes, a tree branch fell on me," he quipped through gritted teeth, eyeing the named knight dourly.

"Well, you're in luck. It was a clean break and we've got a Circle healer in attendance," the Chantry sister assured him, knotting the bandage. "She can halve the healing time."

"Only halve it?" Teagan asked, astounded. Healer Wynne could have it fully mended in a week!

The Chantry sister's sapphire gaze hardened. "The Summer Fever's running through the northern Bannorn and someone's brought it here. Not to be offensive, my Lord, but you Southroners don't have the resistance to it we do."

"Of course. People's lives are more important than my arm." Teagan allowed the brother to help him up off the cot.

"Yes…" Her gaze softened and she dropped it, hiding behind a fall of dark copper tresses streaked with brass and gold. "I-I apologise for being harsh, my Lord. I thought you were speaking from arrogance, not… a lack of knowledge."

"It is I who should apologise, Sister. I _was_ being rather selfish." Teagan took a deep breath, exhaling sharply as the ache lingered. He hoped the healer, whoever she was, was free to tend to his arm soon. "As the ignorance is mine, could you explain what this Summer Fever is? I am the Bann of Rainesferre and if I'm going to have a plague on my hands-"

The Chantry sister shoved back her long hair, allowing Teagan to see her oval face fully for the first time since he'd come in here. "It's not going to be a plague because we're here with a healer and the appropriate herbs. It's a coastal illness that tends to run from Waking Sea to Amaranthine every summer; Senior Enchanter Wynne says that fleas carry it, which is why the place smells of fleabane."

"Wynne's here! Thank the Maker!" Teagan exclaimed. Just the woman he wanted to consult about Anora's barrenness.

"There's a woman touched by Him indeed, and I don't care what the Knight-Commander says," the Chantry sister agreed. "I had the sickness as a child; most of us Northerners do and we shake it off. But you Southroners…" She sighed, shaking that lovely head. If she was beautiful now, in two or three years the men in her congregation would curse her vocation from here to eternity.

"How will it affect us southerners?" he prompted.

"If it isn't stopped in its tracks _now,_ about a quarter of the people who catch it will die, half of them have trouble conceiving a child unless a Spirit Healer can tend to the problem, and all the survivors will be weaker physically for a long time to come."

Teagan chose his next words carefully. "If a southerner caught it as a teenager, could the infertility be dealt with later in life?"

"Maker, yes! They'll just need a lot of gold for the healers and the herbs." She looked at the brother. "Hamish, could you go get Wynne? She'll know better than I what would be needed."

"Of course, Sinead," the big ugly man said affectionately before vanishing.

"Good man. He used to be a bone-setter and blacksmith, and he's teaching me the trade," Sister Sinead said with pardonable pride. Then she flushed in embarrassment. "Maker, there I go again, being all arrogant."

"There's a difference between pardonable pride and arrogance," Teagan assured the coltish young woman, finally placing her. Sinead Cousland was more than fulfilling the promise of beauty she'd held in childhood, her fair skin dusted with freckles and slender, callused fingers stained green from healing herbs.

"You were always a kind man, Bann Teagan," she responded, eyes sad for a moment.

"So your parents chose the Chantry then?" he asked tentatively.

"_I_ chose the Chantry. It was the only choice I could make." Her shoulders bowed for a moment before straightening. "I'm not as unlucky in the cloister as I was in Highever."

_She internalised that stupid superstition,_ Teagan thought sadly. Aloud, he observed, "I'm sure, my Lady, the candidates for marriage your parents preferred had much to do with it."

"Given what I know now, yes," she agreed. "Perhaps that's the Maker's reward for my service, if I may be so proud to assume."

"Your date of birth is just another time in the south," he told her softly, firmly. "You're not 'bad luck', my Lady."

"It's 'Sister', my Lord, and you were always a kind man," she responded quietly as Wynne and Hamish entered the room.

"My apologies, Sister, but the Ayers boy is crying again and needs comforting," Wynne told the young woman gently. The mage never commanded Chantry sisters. She wouldn't dare.

_But for the sins of the few, good people like Wynne are forced into a gilded prison,_ Teagan reflected sourly. He knew the Circles were necessary, but surely someone like Wynne could be trusted with more freedom?

Sinead bowed her head and exited, her movements awkward with youth. Her hands might be deft and sure, but her body needed to catch up.

"Brother Hamish, I do not wish to be rude, but I need to consult Senior Enchanter Wynne on a matter relating to the royal family," he told the brother. "That she can heal my arm as much as can be done at the same time is merely fortuitous timing."

Hamish shrugged good-naturedly. "Healer Wynne's a good woman," he agreed. "I'll be outside if needed."

When he'd left, Wynne sat down on a camp stool without a by-your-leave and took his splinted arm. "Anora had the Summer Fever, didn't she?" the healer asked softly.

"I believe so. Can you tend to it?"

She pursed her lips. "I can do so, but if there's also fault on Cailan's end…" She let the sentence trail off.

"Examine them both the next time you're in Denerim, if you would. We need an heir and quickly." Teagan hissed as the healing spell triggered a brief spurt of agony. "How common is the knowledge of the Summer Fever's symptoms in its usual area of effect?"

"Very." Wynne paused, her grey eyes widening in horror as she processed the information and her knowledge of Fereldan politics. "Oh, by the Maker…"

Teagan sighed. "I pray he has kept the knowledge to himself for the sake of the kingdom."

The healer nodded in grim agreement as she rose, her work done. "So do I. Or young Sinead will be the last of her family by the time Loghain is done with them."

"Has she taken vows yet?" he asked urgently.

"No…" The healer's eyes narrowed. "Don't you even-"

"Always have a second string to your bow," Teagan interrupted quickly. "Sinead's innocence is obvious. Loghain will not move against her."

"I hope you're right," Wynne informed him grimly. "I truly do."

…

Landsmeet Chamber, Royal Palace, Denerim, Wintersend 9:29

The crowd parted for Duncan and his Second Brosca (whose name Teagan learned was Brytta, but only a select few dared to call her that) as they strode towards Cailan and Anora on their thrones, a black-stained canvas bag in the dwarf-woman's hand. Both wore full armour: Duncan his Commander's plate and Brosca her worn, comfortable Scout leathers; though their weapons were sheathed, Loghain still eyed them warily. He'd seen the mayhem both Wardens were capable of, especially as a team.

"Your Majesties, Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet," Duncan announced, his rich raspy voice cutting through the buzz of conversation. "The Fifth Blight has begun."

Sudden silence and blanched faces followed his announcement. Teagan himself felt like he wanted to vomit. _Maker's breath, no, please, not now-_

"It's Urthemiel, the Old God of Beauty, and the last reported sighting was Bownammar," Brosca added calmly. "That's under Ferelden, by the way. Congratulations – your refusal to allow a proper garrison of Grey Wardens has made your nation the most likely to be the first hit by the darkspawn horde."

"What makes you so certain of this?" Loghain demanded of the dwarf.

"History, dumbass. The darkspawn know we Wardens can kill archdemons permanently, so they'll attack the place with the least amount of people that can destroy their pet tainted dragon," Brosca retorted acidly as Duncan buried his face in his hands.

"The darkspawn are mindless. How would they know this?" Anora asked, her voice less sceptical than her father's but still doubtful.

"Like bees and ants, which have hive minds like the darkspawn, know where to find food," Duncan answered, shooting Brosca a quelling glance. "The darkspawn remember everything that has ever happened to them."

"And before you ask, we could turn every person in Thedas into Wardens and it wouldn't kill the horde because there's more of them than us," Brosca added, somewhat more politely. "The archdemon woke up a few weeks ago, though we've suspected this was coming for a while."

Loghain exhaled raggedly. "Maric… knew too. I… didn't want to believe him."

"Most people don't, salroka," Brosca answered with rough sympathy. Despite Loghain's antipathy, the dwarf and the general held an odd respect for each other. "But cheer up. If history's right, we've got a year or two to prepare ourselves. Wardens across Thedas will be converging on Ferelden and we can bring the armies-"

"Not Orlesians!" Loghain hissed. "You know what those bastards are like."

"Don't be ridiculous, Loghain. Our disagreements with the Orlesians are in the past." Cailan stood up, looking like a king in his golden armour. "I have been in diplomatic communication with Empress Celene for the past three months; given that Orlais will be next if Ferelden falls, it would be prudent to make a military alliance with them against the darkspawn."

Teagan couldn't hide his wince as Anora and Loghain glared at the young King. Even Duncan and Brosca looked perturbed. "Your Majesty, the Grey Wardens have established contacts with the Free Marches and several prominent mercenary companies there. In light of residual tensions with Orlais, perhaps it might be prudent to look to Kirkwall and Starkhaven first?" the Warden-Commander suggested tactfully. "You can trust most of the Orlesian _Wardens_ to have no territorial ambitions, but-"

"Nonsense, Duncan. The Orlesians have more to lose than the Free Marches." Cailan looked around at the Landsmeet. "As of now, Ferelden is to start stockpiling resources and training its people to fight the darkspawn. When the monsters come, we will be ready!"

Duncan sighed and looked at Brosca. "May I have some of your Valenta Red?" he asked softly.

"Let's invite Loghain along for a drink. Poor sod looks like he could use some too." The dwarf-woman caught Teagan eavesdropping and smiled crookedly. "Teagan too. He's a smart guy."

"I will come for any conference, but I am not allowed to touch strong alcohol," he said regretfully. "Wynne's orders."

"What kind of horrible person could do that?" she asked in astonishment. "Alcohol is a medical necessity!"

Teagan managed a smile. "I was in danger of pickling my liver, Lady Brosca."

"Huh, guess when you're gonna die young, you don't have to worry about your liver," the Warden said philosophically.

The Bann of Rainesferre took a deep breath as he saw Loghain heading straight for him. "Brace yourself," he warned. "Things are about to get interesting."


	7. 9:28 to 9:30 Dragon

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing this little prequel. The joke about Redcliffe is ripped off from David Eddings 'The Elenium' concerning the kingdom of Arcium. I'm also working with what 'The World of Thedas' said about same-sex relationships and assuming that the Chantry would have ceremonies recognising them.

This story is to blur the lines between good and evil. Yes, there are rotten jerks a-plenty, but life (and politics) is a lot more complicated than even Dragon Age presented. I hope you understand and enjoy.

…

**9:28-9:30 Dragon**

Rainesferre Chantry, Wintersend 9:28

"I see why they call the Arling of Redcliffe 'the Maker's own rock garden'," Brother Hamish observed dryly as he picked out another bit of grit from the herbs they were grinding with pestle and mortar, his big sausage fingers amazingly dexterous.

"The valleys are quite beautiful though," Sinead pointed out. Rainesferre, a small but fertile bannorn a little north of Redcliffe proper, was a lovely little place with buildings made from the local stone, a rose-hued granite that would be in high demand elsewhere if anyone could figure out a way to quarry it without damaging the few fertile spots. Even so, Bann Teagan Guerrin's holding made a handsome profit from selling small carvings made by the local surface dwarf community.

_Praise be to the Maker we stopped the Summer Fever in time,_ she thought in relief. Teagan was a genuinely good man, similar in calibre (perhaps even exceeding) her father, and it would have hurt to know he'd lost many of his people to an illness.

"Wouldn't be a bad place to settle down," Hamish mused. He was in his mid-twenties, a lay brother who'd entered the Chantry in gratitude for the healing of his elder brother. Coming from a truly enormous family, most of them trained as blacksmiths, his great strength and bone-setting skills were a boon to the Order of Andraste the Healer. But Sinead knew that his mind was turning outward to the world again, to a small place like this where a man with a talent for working metal could find a good spouse and settle down to start a family.

"What's his name?" she asked amusedly. Though same-sex relationships were frowned upon by the Fereldan nobility (mostly because they interfered with arranged marriages), the Chantry performed handfastings readily enough and the wise ruler recognised them legally.

"There is no he yet," Hamish chuckled. "But… this is a good place to be. That Teagan's a fine man."

"More nobles could stand to learn from him," Sinead agreed wistfully. In another life, if the younger Guerrin had been a potential suitor, she would have chanced a lifetime of ill luck. He'd always been kind to her.

"Wishful thinking?" Hamish teased. They'd served their brief novitiate together and were fast friends. Sinead, to be honest, had never really been friends with anyone before leaving Highever. Oh, her parents tried and the Banns tried and everyone tried, but the bad luck that followed her around was like an invisible barrier that kept people away.

"Yes," she admitted. He was handsome and kind, gracious and polite. Why wouldn't she wish just a little?

"Hold off on your vows and wait a couple years," he suggested cryptically, grinding some dried mint. "The Maker might have another path for you."

Sinead snorted, rolling her eyes. Hamish was a romantic at heart and believed the Maker created a soul mate for every person in the world. "I doubt that. This is the best place for me to be. For everyone."

She then returned to grinding rosemary, wondering for the umpteenth time why she had been born at a cursed time.

…

Rainesferre Village Green, Summerday 9:29

Sinead threw a wreath of gorse and thyme bound by straw, neatly crowning Hamish as he laughed and spun his husband around. Revered Mother Patience smiled indulgently as the blacksmith's former lay siblings acted in place of his family, laying blessings and hopes for the future on the newlyweds. None of his kin could make it from Amaranthine, so the people of Rainesferre stood in their place.

The decision that seemed so clear when she ten had become blurred over the years. Sinead had come to accept that perhaps she wasn't cursed with bad luck but in the Chantry she'd found a trade, a purpose and a new family that accepted her as she was. There were differences of doctrine that she shared, especially when knowing mages like Wynne or the Dalish elven herbalist Marethari who passed through yearly, but for the most part she was content, even happy in the Chantry. But a novitiate could not last forever and Revered Mother Patience was beginning to drop a few hints about Sinead either taking vows or settling down. The chamber assigned to the novices and lay siblings was getting cramped with people seeking sanctuary from the world and there was a spare pallet in the initiates' dormitory…

She forcefully shoved those doubts aside and concentrated on Hamish. This was his day and she wouldn't ruin it with dark, dour thoughts.

Finally the happily married couple vanished into the inn, where the best room had been set aside tonight for them at the behest of Bann Teagan, who put wedding nights on his tab. Something seemed to be troubling him more of late and much of the time he was in Denerim, no doubt trying to manage the reckless Cailan and keep Ferelden from falling apart. Queen Anora was doing what she could, but rumours were already rumbling about her infertility.

_I hope the information Wynne gave Bann Teagan helps,_ she thought sincerely as the well-wishers broke up to seek out their own beds. _There's… an edge to the wind. Like the Maker's sword lies just above the throat of the world._

She sighed and turned away from the inn to seek out the Chantry. Tomorrow she would be called upon to dispense headache cures and the odd infertility potion for unmarried folks who'd gotten caught up in the spirit of things. Some Revered Mothers frowned upon Chantry healers dispensing such things, but the Order of Andraste the Healer felt it was best children came into the world when they were wanted, not just because of a moment's lust.

"Sinead?" A familiar voice halted her mid-step, the jangling of chainmail accompanying the heavy thud of boots. She turned to face a tall, dark-haired man wrapped in red steel heavy chainmail, accompanied by a red-haired fellow in grey iron plate and a stolid, auburn-cropped chap in scalemail.

"Fergus!" she greeted cheerfully. Once she'd entered the Chantry, he'd kept in contact with her monthly, letters from her parents coming only on the major holidays. No doubt they were busy with affairs of state.

The heir to Highever smiled wearily, bog-brown eyes troubled. "We need to talk somewhere private. Do you know where we can go?"

Sinead nodded and turned for the Chantry. The barn was deserted at this time of night.

Once inside the warm, hay-scented interior, Fergus sat down on a bale of straw, expression worried. "You know Ser Gilmore, but the other knight is Ser Jory, just entered our service from Redcliffe," he introduced. "Sers, this is my sister Lady Sinead."

"I am no longer Lady Cousland," she informed them as the knights automatically bowed. "Simply a healer in service to Andraste."

"You're taking vows for certain then?" Fergus asked carefully.

"Why wouldn't I?" Sinead had found her place and it certainly wasn't wearing silk skirts and chasing after some lout of a husband.

"Things are… awkward at Court," her big brother admitted in little more than a whisper. "Loghain and Teagan are looking askance at us because Father knew about Anora's potential infertility from the Summer Fever and didn't say anything. They've accepted Father's explanation of wanting to keep Ferelden stable, especially since Anora's courses have become… more regular. But… we aren't trusted."

Sinead blinked. "You didn't tell King Maric or Teyrn Loghain. But… that was daft! Queen Anora could have been mended a long time ago and there might be a babe by now!"

Then the reality of what he'd shared crashed and she began to shake as she realised that the information she'd shared so blithely to protect the people of Rainesferre had potentially condemned her family if Fergus couldn't find a way to mend fences. "The Summer Fever came to Rainesferre from Amaranthine. I was tending the sick and Bann Teagan was worried and I told him what was wrong… Oh Maker!"

Fergus regarded her bleakly. "If Father ever learns about this, little sister, he will blame you."

"What, like he always has?" she retorted bitterly. "Every barren womb, milkless cow and withered crop was laid at my feet, Fergus, just because I was born at night on First Day!"

"We never said you were to blame-"

"The looks said it all, Fergus." Sinead wanted to vomit, wanted to crawl into the hay and cry herself to sleep and pray she never woke up.

Her brother sighed, scrubbing his hand through tousled dark hair so much like Father's. "He need never know. Any northerner could have shared that information, as could Healer Wynne."

Sinead hugged herself, cold despite the sultry summer air and the layers of linen robes she wore. "But you're not here about that."

"No, I'm not." Fergus looked up at her regretfully. "We need Lady Cousland, little sister. We need you to make a marriage alliance with-"

"If it's Thomas Howe or Vaughn Uriens, you can take yourself back to Highever!" she spat, alternating between rage, shame and grief. Maybe she wasn't bad luck to everyone else. Maybe she was just plain unlucky.

"Look, you just need to endure one of them until you bear a child. I can put… arrangements… in place that will take care of the bastard. That's assuming they'd be stupid enough to abuse you in the first place, knowing they'd face Father's wrath."

"You know very little about either man." Sinead regarded her brother sourly. "What's wrong with a Southron alliance? There are good men here."

"They're all tied up with Loghain and Eamon-"

"Who, I might add, represent the King we're sworn to serve." She twined her hands about her thick dark copper braid. "Father should stop thinking about that damned treaty, Fergus. The last time a Cousland thought hard about it, his head wound up on a platter with an apple in his mouth."

"I agree with you." His tone was bleak. "If Cailan was simply an idiot, we'd wait for him to father a child and die. But he's… contacted Celene. Behind Loghain and Eamon's backs."

Celene was five years younger than Anora, reputed to be beautiful and gracious… and the Empress of Orlais. "So present the evidence to the Landsmeet once he manages to get Anora with child. Loghain would back you all the way."

Fergus laughed harshly as the knights watched silently. "He used _us_ to do it."

He stood up, regarding her with something resembling anger as she stared up at him. "Father didn't know what was going on until Celene opened the letter during his diplomatic mission to Orlais. By then it was too late."

"Looks like Cailan's smarter than you thought."

"Or Eamon, who's been hinting at his nephew finding a new wife, arranged it." Fergus began to pace, disturbing one of the goats who bleated a complaint. "We're one vote short in the Landsmeet, Sinead. Both Rendon Howe and Urien Kendalls have said they'd support us if you marry their sons. I suspect that neither of them would weep if anything happened to them. Please, Sinead. We need this."

Even though she'd entered the Chantry at ten, she understood certain political realities. "You intend to force a new vote for King."

"We have no choice. Eamon's pandering to Cailan's vanity and Loghain's blind xenophobia will doom us all."

She shuddered as the reality of the situation crashed down upon her. "I-I need to think."

"Don't take too long, sister. Or you'll kill us all."

…

Royal Palace, Denerim, First Day 9:30

Loghain listened to Arl Rendon Howe outline the plot which had nearly doomed Ferelden and sat down heavily, his legs unable to support him. It was a good thing Maric wasn't around to see his son willing to throw his kingdom back to the Orlesians for the title of Emperor or his brother-in-law willing to pander to him. And no doubt the Couslands had participated for their own purposes, namely to take the throne of Ferelden they thought should belong to them.

"Was the Houndmaster aware of this?" was his first salient question once he'd gotten over the shock.

"You saw Teagan's face at the Landsmeet. I think he was as stunned and appalled as most right-thinking Fereldans."

The Teyrn of Gwaren grunted. "So the plot originated with Eamon, who somehow enlisted the Couslands into being the messengers. I am glad Rowan is dead for once."

"Yes." Rendon sighed, rubbing that hooked nose of his. "I supported Bryce because Cailan is a fool. I was hoping to marry my son to his daughter. I'm… heartbroken."

"I didn't know you had one to break," Loghain observed, taking refuge in sarcasm.

Something flickered in those bog-brown eyes. "Elias Howe handled Calenhad's intelligence operations, such as they were. He was cunning, pragmatic and unsentimental when necessary. When Aldenon bound us to the Oathstones, he foretold that all true Howes would share the same virtues."

Loghain received a profound insight into the northern character with Howe's terse statement. The North of Ferelden had been the first to support Calenhad the Great and for many years it was the heartland of the kingdom. Though the Silver Knight's descendants had expanded to the south and west, the northern teynir and arlings had never forgotten their heritage, just as he never forgot he was the son of a freeholder. "I apologise. I spoke carelessly."

Rendon's smile was thin. "At least you said sorry. I know what I am and that I cannot afford regrets. We are both weapons: you the broadsword, I the sgian-dubh. We both serve a purpose."

"If we weren't in a Blight, I'd rip Ferelden apart to destroy this plot root and branch," Loghain vowed. "But, as wary as I am of the Wardens, I fear they may be right. Maric told me once there'd be a Blight, and I have faith in him, if not that mongrel Duncan."

He managed to stand up, walking to the latest map he'd drawn last year. "How far in the families does this plot extend?"

"Teagan was unaware, given that he focuses his attention on the kingdom as a whole," Rendon responded. "He did, after all, give us the information which should hopefully restore your daughter's fertility."

Loghain nodded thoughtfully. "He's a good man, though he lacks conviction at times. I can only hope he'll be wise enough to fall into line when Eamon is dealt with. What of the Couslands?"

"Fergus surely knew, though I suspect he was reluctantly involved at best. He could be muzzled if we 'foster' his son. Sinead Cousland is on the verge of becoming a sister in the Chantry, though Bryce has made overtures to both I and Urien Kendalls to marry her off to one of our sons."

"Not to be offensive, Rendon, but I'd probably take vows too if I had to marry Thomas or Vaughn," Loghain pointed out.

The Arl's brown eyes glittered. "I… know. He has his faults. To be honest, I intend to put the fear of the Maker into him so that he behaves, hopefully breed him to the Cousland girl – she's the next thing to innocent in all of this, even if her father's dragged her out of the cloister – and see if fatherhood will mature him. If not… I'll make sure he's more discreet in the future."

Loghain, who wasn't entirely ignorant of the North's history, grunted. "You want Highever back."

"Conobar took it from us and the Couslands only got it because Salim was spared by Flemeth," Rendon admitted. "If Thom breeds with the Cousland girl, the landwards will be content regardless of whether the next teyrn is a Howe or a Cousland in name."

"What's wrong with Nathaniel?" Loghain asked bluntly. "He lacks your younger son's vices."

"If Nathaniel and I are ever alone in the same room, only one of us will walk out alive," Howe replied flatly. "I was too harsh on him as a lad and he's grown into a stone-cold killer where I'm concerned."

Loghain sighed. "I see. Well, he's at least being useful in Antiva or wherever he was last time I heard."

"Tevinter." Rendon paused, eyeing Loghain carefully. "What about Cailan?"

Loghain's hands clenched into fists. "He's a vain, foolish little boy. But he is Maric's son. The… _other one_… dislikes Anora… with some justification."

"Keep him in wine and whores and he'll be happy enough, I suppose," Rendon agreed. "If we put it to him that Eamon manipulated him-"

"He might just execute the man himself." Loghain shook his head. "No. We don't have concrete evidence for the Landsmeet. This threat will need to be handled discreetly."

"The sgian-dubh instead of the broadsword? Have I carte blanche, if you'll forgive the Orlesian phrase?"

"Within reason. If this is handled wrongly, we will look like the traitors and Eamon and Bryce the martyrs." Loghain concealed sudden tears at the burdens on his shoulders. He had to trust that Maric's absence was for a good reason. He was certain he'd know if the man was dead. They were brothers in soul.

"I'll keep Anora out of it, if something goes wrong," Rendon promised softly.

The Teyrn of Gwaren looked up at the Arl of Amaranthine in wordless gratitude. He'd never expected such compassion and thoughtfulness from the crude, hard man. "Then proceed with my blessing. Maker have mercy on our souls."


End file.
